


Here With Me

by Nina36



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Fluff, F/M, Minor Character Death, Smut, Vicbourne, there is also a case of sort, vicbourne is eating my soul away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: The first time he sees her he wonders if she is even of legal age, let alone if she indeed is the hotshot sergeant everyone is talking about. Her reputation precedes her: she has worked for Interpol, helping bringing down a sex trafficking ring – she has also an impressive academic curriculum....vicbourne modern au in which they are both cops working for Scotland Yard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Vicbourne prompts modern au  
> \- Driving around in a car  
> \- sharing a drink  
> \- one of them stealing a kiss
> 
> an: so yesterday the stress of the past week hit me pretty hard, I asked for prompts and man, did I get some interesting ideas!  
> I know zero about English police hierarchy and procedures, all I know is what I have seen in Sherlock , Broadchurch and other British shows, so it’s entirely possible that I took some extreme liberties.  
> To the anonymous prompter: it’s not exactly Roman holiday, sorry, but my muse couldn’t be steered away from this idea.
> 
> Update: now with a Russian translation done bu the wonderful @zaboraviti here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10443027 ...thank you!!:)

 

The first time he sees her he wonders if she is even of legal age, let alone if she indeed is the hotshot sergeant everyone is talking about. Her reputation precedes her: she has worked for Interpol, helping to bring down a sex trafficking ring – she has also an impressive academic curriculum.

In the weeks before her transfer becomes official, D. I. William Melbourne hears a lot of things about her and dismisses the rumors as it is his habit; if half the rumors he knows exists about him were true he wouldn’t have time to actually _solve_ crimes, he would be too busy shagging each woman in the Met or drink himself into an ethylic coma.

That said – he doesn’t expect _her._

She is young. God, she truly looks like a kid! She is short and thin, she has long dark brown hair pulled up in a bun, huge blue eyes, delicate features, she is dressed in black and he must look like an idiot, which he hates, because part and parcel of his job, the thing that has kept him there, despite everything, is his ability to think on his feet and the fact that, according to his mother, he has chosen the wrong profession: he should have worked in politics.

“I want to catch the bad guys, not be one of them!” He told her once, what it feels like a lifetime before.

His – well, _their_ , boss, their inspector, looks like he wants to smile at the scene in front of him. He looks like the cat that ate the canary. He _hates_ him.

“Detective Inspector Melbourne, this is sergeant Kent.” He says. And that surname, while not uncommon, it carries a weight at Scotland Yard and MI5, MI6 – and right up the chain of command in England.  

_Kent. Like – chief Kent? Like – those Kents?_

The polite smile on the girl’s lips fades as soon as she realises that he has made the connection and he genuinely feels bad for her; God knows whether he has borne his share of assumptions about his life and his choices through the years.

The girl – no, _woman_ , damn it! – could have chosen to do what most of the women in her family did: be a barrister, a politician – or just enjoy the wealth and the power of her family, instead there she is, a mere sergeant for Scotland Yard, just partnered with an old tosser like him.

“Nice to meet you, Sergeant.” He says.

Her hand is delicate, soft, but her grip is surprisingly strong when she shakes his hand.

“Likewise, detective inspector.” She says. She is a lousy liar. How did she smuggle her way into an international sex trafficking ring is beyond him.

She is to be his partner.

Bollocks, that cannot end well!

First: he doesn’t do _partners._ He works with his colleagues, he _is_ a team player, but having a partner is a right pain in the arse!

Second – she is a _kid_ , he can’t help wondering how old is she, and perhaps there is some truth to the rumor that she is very good at reading people because on the way out, after their boss instructs them on what to do, she casually says, “Just so you know, Melbourne, I’ll be thirty next month!”

He doesn’t reply. His first cutting reply resting just the tip of his tongue, the one he stops just in time is, “Good for you, kid!”

The second is – weirder. He has no idea where it comes from and it is, “thank God she’s not _that_ young!”

He is not sure why he is thanking God. She is his partner. And he is an agnostic.

“I’ll drive,” She says, snatching the car’s keys from his hands.

“Why?” He asks.

She smiles, and it’s a true smile, not the polite one she’s given him in their boss’ office: she has dimples and her eyes sparkle when she smiles.

“First,” She says once they get into the car, “You’re the senior agent, so protocol  dictates that I have got to drive. Second – I haven’t been in London for ages!”

He chuckles. He can’t help it. Only someone who has not been in London for a while would ever want to drive there.

“Be my guest, sergeant Kent!” He says.

“Call me Victoria, please!” She replies casually and she grins, before starting the car.

 _Bugger._ He thinks as he fastens his seat belt. Does she remember that in England they drive on the left?

 

* * *

 

 

Victoria may be royalty as far as Scotland Yard and the police are concerned, she might have been a rising star at Interpol, but she truly has no idea about how things  really work in the streets. She is a fast learner, though.

It takes William exactly twenty-four hours to understand just how good exactly Victoria is at her job and how she might have pulled off her undercover job.

It is not the kind of thing he usually does. He doesn’t particularly like undercover jobs, not even temporary ones, but it is necessary. Duty is more than just an abstract concept for him.

“Let me do the talking,” He says before, while they are in the car, outside the seedy club where they have to meet their targets: they are small fishes, mere links in a very large chain, but people are dying because of a new drug and William needs to stop that.

She cocks a delicate eyebrow at him, she seems to consider his words for a moment, nods to herself and says, “Give me a second?”

Time is not exactly a luxury they have, but he has been an arse to her in their boss’ office the day before and he absolutely believes in being fair to people. He hasn’t been given the same courtesy.

He nods his assent and watches her as she undoes a button of her white shirt, unclasps her hair which falls down in long waves around her face and shoulders. He blinks his eyes, he suddenly feels like in one of those movies where the female protagonist reveals her beauty, hidden in a male dominated world, by letting her hair loose on her shoulders.

He usually rolls his eyes seeing those scenes, but in real life – it’s different. Sergeant Kent – is beautiful. Too much.

“You still look like a copper.” He says in a flat tone, instead.

 _And I feel like a dirty, old man._ He thinks for a moment and squelches that thought violently. That is not the time or the place to think about those sort of things. They have work to do!  And he has told her the truth: she still looks like a copper – a breathtakingly hot one, but a copper nevertheless.

Her smile is bright for a moment as if he had paid her the greatest compliment, but when she speaks there are no traces of her decidedly posh accent and when she undoes another button of her shirt he can only say, “You’ll do.”

 

* * *

 

 

She plays the dumb bimbo: the sort of woman people underestimate, the one who oozes sensuality and vulnerability and a ‘shag me senseless’ attitude. Right before they get out of the car, she rummages through her purse and takes a pair of earrings and a bracelet.

 The suit might be austere, but the jewels she wears and the way she sways her hips and walks on her high heels (he had noticed the shoes, made a note to himself to broach the subject to her without being considered a sexist arsehole) all but scream “escort”.

It works. She doesn’t know whom she is dealing with, not truly, and she relies on him for that; she just plays her part, letting him do most of the talking, but getting some useful info herself.

And if he wants to punch the Russian guy who gets too handsy with her, he tells himself that it’s perfectly normal: Victoria is his responsibility, he is her partner. He has to.

He is not sure he truly believes that.

 

* * *

 

 

They call her Queenie behind her back or Her Majesty. Word about her family, how powerful it truly is starts spreading. For his part William only sees that she works hard: she is often already at her desk when he arrives in the morning and leaves even later than he does. She never complains about the paperwork, she is frustrated with red tape like all of them and even if some of their colleagues (and he uses that term broadly) give her a hard time, she is a team player.

He is surprised when he realises that he likes working with Victoria, he genuinely does: she is smart, she has a wicked sense of humor, not unlike his own, and she has a good heart. They spend most of their working hours together, she is humble and seems to value his expertise and he likes that, just like him, she ignores interoffice gossip. They are partners and before he knows it, their partnership becomes something he cherishes – it makes him fall in love with his job all over again.  

It takes him a while, months actually  – and Emma Portman’s best: ‘what in the bloody hell, Will?’ face on a crime scene to realise that things have gotten more complicated than he had anticipated, and it happens when he finally notices that Victoria and him had been sharing a cup of coffee on a crime scene. Somehow it feels natural, it has felt so for weeks, actually. It’s something they do. It is not a big deal.

Until it is.

Emma Portman is on forensics. He is glad when she is on forensics on his cases: they have known each other for most of their lives, since when he was just a kid sitting law and she was studying medicine, back when joining Scotland Yard was the last thing on both of their minds; she always knows what he needs from her and she has an almost preternatural talent at scraping up DNA and fingerprints from seemingly thin air. She is _very_ good.

Emma is also one of his best friends – when his life turned into a nightmare she has been the one who helped him pick up the pieces and he has done the same with her.

“What the fuck?” She whispers while Victoria is talking to one of their witnesses and they are looking at the body on the crime scene.

“I’m sorry?” He says. He is genuinely puzzled.

Emma looks at the huge cup of coffee in his hand, the one Victoria handed him after slurping on it, she glances at his partner and repeats, “What. The. Fuck?”

William blinks his eyes and looks at the Styrofoam cup in his hand, Victoria doesn’t wear lipstick, but he can’t help looking at the spot from where she has drunk her – _their_ coffee.

Before he can say anything – and he has no idea about what he might say – or Emma can, Victoria joins them, he feels like he’s watching his body and the scene from the outside: he sees himself wordlessly handing Victoria the mug and how she drinks from it, before passing it back to him, the way they are standing close, perhaps too close,  how she rolls her eyes at something a constable mumbles about her nib deigning to examine the body; he sees the way he scowls at the constable (he will later remind the young prick of what hierarchy and chain of command really means.) and how he watches Victoria.

 He realises he can’t tear his eyes off of her when she goes back to talk to the witnesses, asking questions about the victim, and her impressive academic curriculum pays off: she is good. No, more than that - she is brilliant!

“Do you know that they call her Mrs. Melbourne?” Emma says when Victoria is not within earshot.

He has learned to tune out gossip, he has had to, or he wouldn’t have survived the nightmare his personal life has become. But that is – _new._

“No!” He says and his voice comes out sharp and high, so much that Victoria looks at him from the other side of the room with an inquisitive look on her face.

“I’m just sayin’,” Emma says.

“Can we pay attention to the murder?” He snaps. He knows Victoria is still looking at him. And that is something he has noticed before, he has gotten used to it, but – it feels different in that cramped room, with a dead body on the pavement and what it feels like half of Scotland Yard there.

“Of course, detective inspector,” Emma says, but her, “it’s not over and by the way: fuck you!” is loud and clear for him to hear.

 

* * *

 

 

Emma’s words open a floodgate for him. It feels like everyone is talking about Victoria and him. He finds out that they indeed call Victoria Mrs. Melbourne – but they also call him Prince Consort.

He has been – at the centre of gossip for years, he has always ignored useless drivel, he has never cared about it, or at least he has developed such a thick skin that words truly can’t touch him, but – he can’t stop thinking about the few snippets he becomes privy of; they are lies, of course – and completely unfair toward Victoria, who never even mentions her family and works hard to prove that she is good at what she does.  

Victoria notices he is out of sorts. Of course, she does. She is a trained investigator and they spend too much time together. They are in his office, going over the witnesses’ depositions when she asks, “Is there a problem, William?”

He has been reading from the same page for what it feels like hours, and he isn’t sure he remembers a word of what he has read.

“No, everything is fine, why?” William asks.

She arches an eyebrow,  he notices that some locks of hair are framing her face, her blue shirt is rumpled, her jacket is neatly folded on a chair, his desk is littered with reports and empty cups of coffee, they have been working for hours, she has a smudge of what it looks like black powder on her left jaw and William is man enough to admit that he wants to kiss her. Right then and right there in his office.

Which is surprising, considering he wasn’t even aware of his attraction to Victoria until that morning. Which is also highly inappropriate – they are partners, but he is, technically speaking, her superior.  

“Is everything okay with Emma?” She asks. Her voice is tentative, and it is also the first time she has asked a personal question since they have been working together.

“Everything is – fine.” He says. He has the feeling one of them has missed something. He is contemplating to bang his head against his desk, on principle. He does nothing.

“Good.” She says, “I’m happy – she seems like a good woman.” Victoria says.

He wants to tell her that Emma is just a friend, he truly does instead he mumbles, “You have a smudge on your face…”

She uses a napkin – but misses the spot and it is like a trainwreck he can’t stop – he can only watch it happen: he reaches toward her and wipes away the smudge on her jaw with his thumb.

They lock gazes. He is good at his job, he is supposed to be a good detective, his commendations and crime solve rate should confirm that – and yet he feels like a moron.

He _is_ a moron.

 He is also in love with his partner and, apparently, is the last person who has noticed.

No. That is not correct – Victoria hasn’t noticed. And she doesn’t have to. Ever.

 

* * *

 

He reconsiders his stance on agnosticism for a moment because for some divine intervention no one has seen him tenderly wipe a smudge from Victoria’s jaw. Considering that the door was open and people barge into his office all the bloody time, it is a minor miracle.

Victoria looks startled, her blue eyes look huge for a moment and she stammers something about being late, grabs her jacket and her notebook and leaves his office.

She doesn’t slam the door on her way out, but William sort of feels like she has.

He is so buggered!

 

* * *

 

 “Damn!” _thump_ , “Damn!” _thump_ , “Damn! Ow!” Victoria massages her forehead. Banging her head against the steering wheel had felt like a good idea once inside the safety of her car.

Turns out – it isn’t.

She starts the car – and despite her current state of mind and the blooming headache due to her stupidly thinking that banging her head against the steering wheel might solve anything,  she can’t help smiling a little thinking about William’s remarks about her car and the fact that she had missed driving in London.

Her smile fades – God, what has she done?

One of the downsides of having most of her family in politics, police and secret services is that they all have felt, at one point or another, the need to advise her or warn her. Lately they have all warned her against William.

Her mother, whose biggest accomplishment in life has been to marry her father and her step father, has been the first to warn her against William.

“Be careful, _Drina_ – that man is a well known womanizer.” Her mother said.

And she hates that she used that stupid endearment from when she was a child.

A womanizer. William. _Her_ William.

They don’t know him.

She can’t bang her head against the steering wheel, not while she is driving – but her grip on it tightens. _Her_ William? Really?

She has always ignored gossip and rumors – but she can admit, now, that she was wary before meeting William Melbourne. All she remembers now, months later, about their first meeting, was the almost comical look of surprise on his face while looking at her. It was a step up, people usually take a look at her, learn her surname and dismiss her.

William, instead, has done nothing of the sort: he has gotten over his initial shock quickly and since then he has trusted her to do her job and to be his partner.

Partners look out for each other – and that’s what they have done since the first day: she trusted him while undercover and he did not disappoint her.

Partners spend a lot of time together, it comes with the job, it’s natural. And they spend most of their time together: he has showed her the ropes, what it truly means to be a copper in London. He is honest, decent, smart and the least judgmental person she has ever met. He is compassionate, he has never lost his humanity, despite having been in the force for most of his adult life.

He respects her, not because of her family or because he has to – but because he values her as a fellow officer.

Partners develop a strong bond: spending so much time together it is only natural that it happens.

“And here I go and botch things up!” She says aloud in the empty car.

There is a sadness about William – a sense of loneliness that she has noticed very early in their partnership. He has never volunteered any personal information about his life and she has respected the boundaries, thinking that it was the least she could do.

 He has never asked her why on Earth would she even contemplate to be a copper when she could either enjoy her family’s money or analyse data for MI5, like she was expected to do given her background and education.

So, she has never asked, she has noticed the lack of personal stuff in his office, but she has refrained from asking any questions, she has made a point of tuning out each and every gossip about him, she has told her uncle that no, she would not read her partner’s personal file, yes she was serious, no she would burn the blasted thing if he sent it to her and no, he had not made a pass at her.

For the first time in her life, while working with William, she has felt at ease, like she can be whatever she wants to be, she has felt free – the kind of freedom that she has tried so hard to achieve, that prompted her to work for Interpol in the arse end of Europe, as far away from her family as she could. She can now bear to be in London because she feels like she belongs, she feels _home_ and she owes it to William.

Partners are _not_ supposed to – be attracted to one another. That is absolutely forbidden. It goes against the rules and against basic common sense.

She is not blind. She vividly remembers looking at him for the first time, in their chief’s office and thinking that those cheekbones, combined with those green eyes and long, dark lashes should be illegal – and that had been before he had even talked or moved.

She remembers playing the part of the escort, during their brief undercover job, on their first official day as partners, she remembers the feeling of walking side by side, his hand on the small of her back, the possessive look in his eyes as one of their targets thought it was within his rights to fondle her breasts – and how a small part of her had liked that look on his partner’s face. And how he had merely cocked an eyebrow when, hours later, she had accidentally on purpose kneed the Russian guy in the groin.  

Boundaries are necessary. There is a reason for rules and she believes in duty. Her family has been the epitome of Queen (or King) and Country for generations – and there she goes, falling in love with her partner.

It’s late, there is not a lot of traffic and she parks the car in front of her flat and she cannot move, for a moment. She is in love with William.

People have been gossiping about them since the very first days of their partnership, she knows that – she has been made aware of some of the gossip and her first thought, at the time, was the hope William would not hear it. He loathes gossip as much as she does, he keeps his personal life so tightly under wraps partly because of the gossip about him, she thinks. And some of that gossip about him is so – _vile_ that she has to rely on her discipline not to defend him, she knows it would only harm him in the long run. The last thing William Melbourne needs is ‘Her Majesty’ coming to his rescue.  

He has the reputation of a womanizer, but he always been utterly professional with her, he has never, ever made a pass at her or any woman they have met, for that matter. He is a gentleman, charmingly so when they are alone, but there are boundaries – and besides, he does not look like he is interested in her.

Half the yard thinks they are shagging – and they have no idea that she is in love with him and has just realised that. Half the Yard thinks they have hot, steamy sex whenever and wherever they can – but they have not heard and seen him talking to Emma Portman.

They have not noticed, apparently, the familiarity and intimacy of their interaction or his outrage at the mere mention of one her monikers: Mrs. Melbourne.

They haven’t seen the terrified look in his eyes as he wiped a smudge away from her face, looked at her and surely realised that she was that close to kiss him, right there, in his office. Protocol, duty and rules be damned.

She hides her face in her hands and lets out a muffled scream. She can’t lose him.

Besides, he is probably in a relationship with Dr. Portman.

She loves working with him – she has become a better officer thanks to him, she loves the easy camaraderie between them, how they spend hours together and time flies, how they look out for each other and how their methods are complementary.

She loves that, when stuck in traffic, they talk about telly or books they have read or want to, and one memorable time, a few weeks after they became partners, they both got chills and goosebumps when they heard snippets of David Bowie’s Space Oddity coming from a nearby car.

She can’t lose him. She just can’t.

 

* * *

 

Emma’s sofa and him go way back. He has crashed on that monstrosity more times than he cares to admit. It’s comfortable and he needs comfort. He is also on the way of being drunk and he knows that Emma is patiently waiting for him to either talk or pass out.

He’d rather pass out, truth be told, but he also knows that Emma will eventually make him talk – she should have been a detective, she is one of the best interrogators he has ever met – so he decides to man up and says, “I’m buggered.”

She makes a non committal sound at his words, she is still nursing her first beer, he has sort of lost count of how many he has had since barging into her flat shortly after Victoria left his office.

“No, I am.” He says.

“Oh, William –“ She says shaking her head.

There is a world of meaning in those two words: it’s a lifetime of friendship – and her witnessing his life falling apart, of losing hope and become bitter and jaded, it’s her helping him organizing two funerals when he wished to be dead and letting him crash on her couch for weeks because the idea of going back to his flat was simply unthinkable. It’s her helping him pack things and sell that flat, and being there for him at the end of the day when he could barely function.

It’s her telling him to move on with his life and him never having the heart to tell her, “What life? What is the point?”

It’s her telling him, once, that she wished all those rumors about him being a womanizer were true, because it would mean he was living again.

It’s him not telling her that he could shag his way through London and it still would not change things.

“What happened?” She asks.

“You bloody well know what happened!” He says.

She lets out a snort. “No. I bloody well don’t!” She says. And he must be really drunk because he can’t say whether she is lying or not. He doesn’t even care.

“Has it something to do with your partner?” Emma asks.

He drinks his beer and nods.

“You know? This thing would be quicker if you actually spoke!” Emma says. But they both know that he can’t really talk.

“Is it because of what I told you?” She asks.

William shakes his head. “No – yes.” He says. Oh, he’s doing great: monosyllabic words, he might be able to form a complete sentence before passing out with alcohol poisoning!

“Oh, dear…” Emma says. Emma usually swears like a sailor; it’s her work persona, the no-non sense attitude she has developed through the years,  she only reverts back to her true self when she is genuinely shocked.

“Emma –“ He says warningly.

“You are in love with her!” Emma says. She sounds surprised – and what shocks him is that she sounds happy.

 He closes his eyes and sighs, “I told you – I’m buggered!”

“You don’t mean that.” Emma says after a moment of silence.

He opens one eye to glance at her, and she genuinely looks like she doesn’t understand.

“I do.” He says.

“Oh, let me see: after grieving for _years_ you finally, finally fall in love with a beautiful, smart woman who clearly adores you and you think you are buggered?”

“She is my partner, it’s against the rules and there is a reason for them, you know that. I’m older than her, I am a right mess – and what did you just say?” William asks straightening up on the sofa and looking at her.

 The silence grows thick  and is interrupted, quite unexpectedly, by Emma whacking him with a cushion.

“What the hell?” He says.

“Are you blind?” Emma exclaims and there is genuine amusement and exasperation in her voice.

One of the best forensics members of Scotland Yard has just whacked him with an orange cushion and William is far too drunk not to find that funny. And a tiny bit pathetic.

“William – I have seen the way she looks at you. Everyone has! That kid adores you!”

“She is not a kid – she is thirty.” He says automatically and can’t help groaning at the look Emma gives him.

“She is not in love with me!” William says shaking his head, “We are partners – she’s young and bright and she might have everyone she wants –“

“Uh-huh…” Emma says, “like Albert whatshisface?”

He sobers up immediately, “Yeah, exactly like him.”

 Albert is – young, handsome, posh, with a bright career ahead of him as a barrister; he also does pro bono work for abuse victims and William could perhaps live a hundred years without seeing him flirting with Victoria again.

Emma drinks the last of her beer and then asks, “What happened, Will?”

It takes him some liquid courage and perhaps Caro was right when she said that making him talk was like pulling teeth because when he finishes telling Emma what happened in his office – he feels exhausted and old. And buggered.

“And then she ran away?” Emma asks.

“Yep.” William says. And he can’t believe that he is having that conversation, he can’t believe that it is truly happening.

“Did it occur to you that maybe you didn’t scare her off?” Emma asks patiently.

“You didn’t look at her –“ William says, “she looked terrified.”

“So do you – and yet here we are…you sprawled in my couch, in love with your partner.”

“I…” He hesitates.

He could lie, sure. He could tell Emma that he is not in love with Victoria, that his world has not turned on its axis and that he is not terrified. Emma would probably whack him with the other cushion or wake him at six a.m with Sex Pistols blaring from the stereo in the sitting room and only decaf as a punishment.

He is exhausted, though. He doesn’t think he has any energy left to be in denial, to practice self deception or any other tactic that has allowed him to survive.

“I am – but Emma, she deserves better.” He says, and it hurts to speak for a moment.

Emma knows everything about him – even the words he has never spoken, the things he barely allow himself to think, let alone talk about.

“You should let her decide for herself, William,” Emma says, he is startled when she loops an arm around his shoulder and says softly, “and you should try and forgive yourself.”

He closes his eyes and can’t help smiling when he says, “By the way, I believe she thinks we are together…”

Her chuckle is familiar, comforting, “She really doesn’t listen to any gossip, does she?”

William smiles, and for a moment his heart swells with hope when Emma says, “She is perfect for you…”

He falls asleep with those words echoing in his heart – wishing he could believe them.

 

* * *

 

Things are awkward – William walks on eggshells around her and she is acutely aware of the looks they are getting the next day or, perhaps, she is paranoid. They still have a case, a gruesome murder, the kind of crime that makes her uncle call and check in if she is okay, if she has changed her mind about being transferred, about finishing her training and join MI5.

She ignores three calls and deletes four messages by noon, even William notices, he stops walking on eggshells and asks her if everything is alright. He looks tired, he is wearing the same clothes he was wearing the previous day and he smells – differently. It’s not his usual soap and deodorant combo (one she secretly has come to identify with him: clean skin and citrus), it’s – more feminine.

“My uncle.” She says.

They are alone in his office, and it doesn’t feel awkward any longer, she is – she is (jealous) furious.

“Oh.” William only says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She snaps.

She hates that she is a good officer, that she pays attention to details, that she uses her senses and that her brain never, ever shuts down because she has identified that smell:   talcum powder and something spicy because she remembers liking it the day before while standing right beside Dr. Portman.

William blinks in surprise, “I was merely –“

“My uncle wants me to complete my training for MI5.” Victoria says between clenched teeth.

William doesn’t look at her, he looks at the pictures on his desk: the young woman who has been slaughtered and whose killer they need to catch, before he strikes again because it is only a matter of time before he kills again, they know that.   

“Perhaps you should take it into consideration –“ William says eventually.

People think that growing up in her family meant having all doors open – they don’t know that it has mostly meant a tight discipline, having to set a higher standard for themselves and never, ever show any weakness. It is something hard ingrained in her, like duty and love for her country.

She only allows  herself to be irrational while on her own – banging her head against the steering wheel being an example – but she is never to show her true inclinations in public. It’s what her father taught her, what her uncles have repeated her, even her step father, as much as she despises him, has enforced that rule, that way of living.

She wants to cry, she wants to smack William – she wants to scream, “Fuck you!”- she mostly feels forsaken, though. She had not expected that from William.

“Do you really think that?” She asks, her voice is perfectly even. Her family would be _so_ proud.

William looks at her, “It doesn’t matter what I think.” He says eventually.

“Indulge me.” She says coolly. And yes, she sort of gets why some people in their division call her, Her Majesty, it hurts that she has used that tone of voice with William.

 “I think that – you are an excellent officer, one of the best I have ever had the privilege to work with, but you are also young and can have better than this…” he gestures at the room which is admittedly quite bleak, at the pictures on the desk and himself.

And she forgets why she is so furious (jealous), she forgets everything, she can only focus on William – on the sadness, heartbreak written all over his face, filling every word he has said.

 _What happened to you?_ She wonders. She wants to know – it would take just a phone call to know, but she would rather die than betraying William’s trust.  William’s heart is broken and she desperately wants to help him.

“What if –“ She says slowly, her voice lower, struggling to get past the sudden lump in her throat, “this is exactly where I want to be?”

His smile is sad, beautiful and it threatens to shatter a lifetime of discipline because she wants to reach out and hold him. She settles for reaching a hand and clasping the man’s under his desk.

People already think they are shagging, William and her know the truth.

William squeezes her hand back but he doesn’t get to answer. The constable who gets into the office to warn them that there has been another murder doesn’t see their hands joined under the desk.

 

* * *

 

 

Dr. Portman is already at the crime scene when they arrive. Victoria notices something weird right away: constables and forensics team members all do their best to keep William busy and away from the crime scene and usher her inside the building.

It turns out that it’s a double murder: a mother and her young son, sitting respectively on the sofa and a chair in a sitting room, both their throats slashed.

“Jesus…” She mutters. There is so much blood – and she can still see the tear tracks on the woman’s face, and the boy must have been terrified.  

“Sergeant –“ Dr. Portman says and she plasters a polite look on her face, whatever her personal feelings are they have to wait. There are two dead people in the room that deserve her full attention.  

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for Will to –“ She trails, but stops talking when William gets inside the room.

“Emma?” William asks as he takes in the scene and visibly pales.

Emma gives them the rundown of the scene and what she has gathered so far, she also adds, “Perhaps Sergeant Kent can examine the scene while you talk to the neighbors?”

There is a pleading note in the woman’s voice and Victoria feels paralyzed for a moment. She doesn’t know what to do or say. Her first instinct is to contradict her: she cannot dictate how they conduct an investigation, that is not her job! But she is also _close_ to William, she knows things she, on the other hand, ignores.

And William is pale. He is far from being squeamish, he is never flippant about death and murders, he has a macabre sense of humor, just like her, but he has never been disrespectful – but she has never seen him pale on a crime scene either.

William looks at her for a moment, and she tries to convey with her eyes that whatever decision he makes she will back him up. She is his partner. Emma might be his _lover_ , but protecting William on the job is her duty and privilege.

“Fine.” He says eventually. He leaves the room quickly and Victoria doesn’t know what to do, for a moment.

Dr. Portman passes her a pair of nitrile gloves and says, “Let’s get this over with…”

They examine the scene together, and yes, William has definitely spent the previous night with her, at least judging by the fact that they shared the same body wash and deodorant, but it hardly matters now.

There are two dead people and her partner – worries her. No – she is terrified for him.

“What happened to him?” She asks as soon as they are alone, because it is starting to be very clear that something must have happened to him ad she has been a copper long enough to be able to come up with all kind of scenarios, neither of which is pretty.  

Dr. Portman looks at her and shakes her head, “Sorry, sergeant – it’s not my story to tell. You will have to ask him.” She says. And she means it. She won’t say a word – and come to think of it, all the gossip she has heard and ignored about William all deals with an ‘after’, with how he became a womanizer, someone who drinks too much (she has never seen him drink nothing more than a pint). There was a before – and an after and she has no clue about what it is all about.

She shakes her head and Emma gives her a sympathetic smile, but her voice can’t hide both the curiosity and the steel in it when she says, “That depends, of course, whether you think he’s worth it.”

She did not expect _that,_ but the words leave her mouth before she can even think about stopping them, “Of course he is.”

She might still save her face, make sure Emma doesn’t get the wrong idea, that she is not a danger for her relationship with William, but Dr. Portman stops her, she places a hand on her arm and whispers, “Good to know, now let’s get back to work!”

She turns and sees that a new swarm of constables and forensic team members are getting into the room.

They have work to do – and Victoria feels like her world has just been shaken to its foundations. What happened to William?

 

* * *

 

 

She finds him hours later, on the terrace of their building; it’s a chilly night, no one ever gets up there, which is precisely why William loves that place. He is shivering in his coat, but he feels like he can breathe again, breathe properly for the first time since he has been in that house, that morning.

Part of him is relieved when he sees Victoria, part of him wished she would look for him, but the other part – the rest of him, whatever it is left of him, doesn’t want her there. Not that night, not – when he feels so raw, so close to just shatter in a million of pieces, and that is a feeling he is all too familiar with.

It’s not about the victims, it’s not because it reminds him of his past, it’s not because he is in love with a woman who deserves better than him – or perhaps it is and he is just terrible at self deception.

“William?” Victoria calls behind him.

He doesn’t turn. He wants her to go away. He wants her to step closer and never let go.

“I’ve been looking for you.” She says. She steps closer, he still doesn’t turn to look at her.

If he talks, if he opens his mouth he has no idea, none whatsoever, about what will come out, he keeps his mouth shut, looks at the sky, at how an unusually bright night it is for London.

He feels her small hand resting between his shoulder blades, he closes his eyes, needs to turn, needs to touch her, more than he actually cares about breathing. He does not. He grips the edges of the balcony with both hands and doesn’t move.

She doesn’t talk, she doesn’t move. She is just there, for him. She offers comfort and peace without uttering a sound and William doesn’t think he has ever been more grateful to anyone in his life.

Or more in love.

Or more scared.

 

* * *

 

 She has no idea how long they stay on that terrace, not moving, not talking, she doesn’t move her hand from that spot between his shoulder blades, he only stops gripping the edge of the balcony after an agonizingly long time.

Is that the man she has been warned against? The one who can’t look at her, can’t say a word – who looks so lost and broken?

When he finally, finally turns and looks at her his eyes are dry, he is still pale, but there is a gentle smile on his lips – it’s a smile he only reserves to her, she has noticed, it’s one of the things that made her fall in love with him.

“Your lips are almost blue…” He says. His voice is hoarse, as if it’s taking him an effort to speak and she feels it’s probably the case.

She shrugs and smiles at him. They are still close, her hand has slid down his back. She can feel her heart drumming against her ribcage, she forces herself to step back, her instinct tells him to touch him, to kiss him – to never let him go, but she cannot think of herself. Not now.

“Tea?” He says, and if she didn’t know him as well as she does, if she hadn’t felt how frantically his heart was beating even through layers of clothes, under her palm, she would have bought the casual tone of his voice.

His eyes are pleading her.

_Indulge me._

“Coffee.” She says. She is shaking, she has no idea how much for the cold and how much for – the shift she can sense in her relationship with William.

He rolls his eyes and mumbles, “Addict.”

They start walking toward the door and she nudges him while saying, “It takes one to recognize one…”

He chuckles and takes her hand in his. They’re both cold – because they’re two lousy, lousy officers who didn’t think about wearing gloves while having a moment in the middle of the night, during one of the coldest nights of the year.

Geniuses, the both of them.

He is smiling, though – and his smile is genuine. And that is all that matters.

 

* * *

 

When it happens neither of them expects it. It’s been a tiring week, they both have a cold – which is causing snickers and knowing glances among their colleagues – they are nowhere near finding the sick bastard who has killed three people and they have been running on too much coffee and too little sleep for days.

It takes a moment, really; they walk out of the elevator and into the underground parking lot, he insists on accompanying her to her car, even though she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but she indulges him anyway.

“Get some rest. That’s an order, sergeant!” He says and she doesn’t really want to go home. She doesn’t want to go back to her empty flat, her unmade bed and her empty fridge.

She has the feeling he doesn’t want her to go either. They have been – quite inseparable for the past few days. Unlike what tv programs show on the telly, coppers rarely have just one case on their hands. They have been working hard – between cases and paperwork. And despite the cold she hasn’t complained – and neither has he.

She – doesn’t want to leave him, that is the truth.  

He opens the car’s door for her and stops, she moves and their coordination is shot to hell because they are both exhausted, they are too close, they bump into each other, it’s almost completely dark where she has parked her car, she tilts her head up and it is natural for her to brush his lips with hers.

 It is only then, when her brain actually catches up with the rest of her body,  that she realises that she is effectively cornered against the car’s door and that she is kissing William Melbourne or he is kissing her – it doesn’t truly matter. It’s a matter of semantics, really.  

They are kissing.

It is not her first kiss, not by any stretch of imagination, but it sort of feels like it is. Perhaps it is the way William cradles her face in his hands, how he scatters teasing brushes of lips at the corners of her mouth, how he teases the seams of her lips with his tongue or maybe it is how she can’t help but carding her fingers through his hair, how her heart races in her chest and, God, the man knows how to kiss – he definitely knows how to kiss a woman, she doesn’t remember ever being so turned on by a mere kiss.

Well, it is _not_ a mere kiss. It is William kissing her, it is feeling his body against hers,  his warmth, the intimacy of sharing breaths and the thrill of his stubble against her skin; their difference in height doesn’t make the kiss awkward, somehow they move together as if that isn’t their first kiss; there is passion – and it’s slowly burning between them, William doesn’t seem to be in any rush, it might have been sudden (no, it’s been months – weeks, days, minutes and seconds in the making), but he takes his time kissing her, they both do: teasing, tentative, languid; the kiss deepens and she can’t help a soft moan, which only encourages William.

 She has never been kissed like that: passion, lust – and devotion. She loves touching his skin, she loves that she knows his taste and that he is there, in the present, with her.

She feels the loss of contact with William almost like a slap in the face, she blinks her eyes and it’s half dark in there, and he is still so close to her and she needs to touch him, she needs to still have a contact with him, she needs to know that it has really happened. She grabs his hand and he doesn’t let go.

“I…” He trails and his voice is hoarse and Victoria is ready to smack him, for real, if he tells her that he is sorry.

“I should go back – see you tomorrow?” William says, instead.

He lets go of her hand and takes a step back, and Victoria smiles, “Yep, bright and early – I’ll bring coffee.”

“Copious amounts.” William says.

 _I love you._ She wants to say, but she knows it’s too early. She knows there are things William is not telling her, she will wait – she can wait as long as it takes.

She gets into the car, he closes the door and she has just started the car when William calls her name, she rolls the window down and she has the shock of her life when William kisses her again, soundly and whispers against her lips, “Good night, Victoria.”

“Good night, William –“ she whispers back.

She can’t stop smiling for hours, after.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When William breaks the kiss Victoria fears he is going to send her away – she sees the doubts in his eyes, that absurd, unfounded, ridiculous conviction that she deserves more than him.
> 
> She touches his face with both her hands – somehow, she doesn’t know how or when, they have moved while kissing and her back is touching the wall behind her – and she is quite sure that it is not how the kiss started – she is pretty sure, in fact, that William has turned them, while they kissed. Not that it matters – what truly matters is being with William, is letting that man know, feel, understand that she cannot imagine ever living without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it was supposed to be a two part fic. I did not expect - a couple of scenes to kind of derail me. The next part should be the last, though -  
> warning: angst.  
> warning: vicbourne is highly addictive.  
> Thank you for all the kudos and feedback! Enjoy:)  
> ETA for some editing - damn pronouns and lack of a beta reader!

 

The fourth victim is another woman, same m.o. as the previous three; no one wants to say it aloud, even if The Daily Mail is having a field day with the news, but they know they are dealing with a serial killer; all the victims have had their throats slashed, the only anomaly is the young boy and how the scene was set – William has looked at the pictures of the second crime scene for longer than he cares to admit, he is still looking at them on a rainy morning when he tells Victoria, “Come with me.”

She is in his office, she is cross-checking data: phone records and credit cards receipts of all the victims. They need to find a common link, they know the serial killer (and dear Lord,  he hates them) is escalating, the last victim has almost been decapitated – and it will only get worse.

Victoria’s relatives are now more than shadows; the higher ups are worried, they need to solve those crimes.

“Sure –“ She says.

He realises, in that moment, that she trusts him implicitly. He has known that, intellectually, but he feels it in his gut and it’s the most humbling thing he has felt for a very long time.

“I need to check on something.” He says.

She puts her jacket on and he grabs her scarf for her on her desk on the way out. People look at them, someone roll their eyes, he doesn’t care.

She stands a little too close to him in the elevator, but that is the only outward sign that something has changed in their relationship.

He has been keeping his distance since they have kissed. In an ideal world things would have gone swimmingly – kissing would have been just the prelude for things to come.

Reality is _vastly_ different.

In an ideal world the fact that she is the daughter, niece and granddaughter of very powerful people, the kind of people who truly run a country would not have been an issue. Victoria is a grown, remarkable, strong, intelligent, brilliant woman – and  an excellent police officer.

Alas, he has long stopped believing he lives in an ideal world.  

The black car waiting for him outside the Yard was not completely unexpected, he thinks now – part of him had known it would happen sooner or later, the fact that it happened mere hours after he kissed Victoria in the underground parking lot was not a coincidence.

The conversation with the man in the car – Victoria’s uncle – was civil. William knows that people like Victoria’s uncle don’t really need to threaten, they do not need to raise their voices, they just make things _happen_.

The man did not ask him whether he was shagging his niece, he knew better. The man did not even ask him what on Earth he had been thinking when he had kissed his niece in a place where their colleagues might have seen them.

“My niece – is strong headed.” The man said, instead.

He remembers not replying to the man’s words. He is her uncle, but William is her partner. Looking out for her, protecting her is his job! It has also become what he lives for, but Victoria’s uncle did not need to know that.

“She wants to follow her path, make her way through life, and I can appreciate that.” The man said, sounding absolutely sincere.

“I am concerned, though. My niece – is a romantic at heart. She took after her mother.” The man continued.

He thinks that it’s a good thing he has always excelled at hiding his emotions while dealing with pillocks. He hates the way that man talked about Victoria, as if having a good heart, choosing another path for herself is a bad thing.  

“Does she know about your wife, Detective Inspector Melbourne?” The man asked.

Reality has its way to rear its ugly head and bite him in the arse.

“I do not think I need to remind you of the importance of rules, Detective Inspector and I would appreciate if you did not insult my intelligence by denying -” The man continued.

“I am perfectly aware of the rules, sir,” He only replied, “but I am not sure Victoria would appreciate your meddling into her life.”

The man smiled – and William still thinks, days later, that the man must use the same smile right before sending people to die horrible deaths in the name of the greater good.

“No, she probably wouldn’t. You still have not answered my question, though: does Victoria know about your wife? Does she know about your family?” The man asked.

“Why don’t you tell her?” He replied, barely resisting the urge to spit those words.

“Oh, I volunteered, more than once, but she quite forcibly declined my offer.” There was a genuine smile on the man’s face. He was a pillock, but William could see that he truly cared about his niece. He was proud of her.

“I will do everything in my power to see that no harm comes to her, detective inspector.” The man said.

“She can take care of herself.” William replied.

Truth is, despite what he said in that car – he wholeheartedly shares the man’s sentiment. And he is aware of the fact that Victoria would kick both their arses if she knew.

“To answer your original question,” He said eventually, “No. She doesn’t know.”

“It is only fair that she knows, detective inspector.” The man said.

No threats. No reminders that he is her senior officer and therefore a relationship is forbidden; Victoria’s uncle did not need to threaten him.

He is also right: Victoria deserves to know the truth, but talking about his family requires a strength William is not sure he has left; therefore he has kept his distance and Victoria, while not happy about it, has not said a word.

Their steps match as they walk toward his car, she is still standing a bit too close than is acceptable, but then again they have forsaken personal space long before they kissed. It is one of the things that have started the flood of rumors about them, according to Emma.

“Where are we going?” She asks once they are in the car.

“Mrs. Taylor’s flat. I want to check the crime scene.” William only says.

She doesn’t tell him that she has checked the crime scene – and he hopes, he truly does, that she doesn’t think he doesn’t trust her. He does, with everything he is.

He needs to see the scene, the flat with his own eyes.

“By the way, Victoria – do you think we could bypass some red tape and have access to CCTV feeds if you talked to your uncle?” He asks.

They have been waiting for CCTV’s feeds for days, he knows the bastard will kill soon, he is escalating, after all. He truly doesn’t want to wait for him to make a mistake.

 She looks at him and he can see that his words have surprised her – she seems to think about it for a moment, she must see that they need to see the feeds, that they cannot lose any more time because of bureaucracy, she sighs and says, “I will call him,”

She doesn’t look happy about it, but her voice is light when she says, “We don’t exactly have an easy relationship.”

“I can’t imagine why is that.” William says.

They exchange a glance – she is smiling, and there are still murders to solve, his past and her family, but for just one moment he feels like they can do everything, be everything they want to.

 

* * *

 

He has seen the pictures of the crime scene, he has read both Victoria’s and Emma’s reports – but he needs to see the sitting room again, he needs to examine the flat with his own eyes.

Victoria looks worried, he remembers all too well her reaction when Emma suggested that he talk to the witnesses. She suspects something must have happened to him, but she doesn’t know what – and she is respecting his privacy.

He is not – a profiler, he is not a genius, he is just a copper who has worked for most of his adult life at Scotland Yard, solving crimes.

The flat has not been cleaned up yet: Mrs. Taylor’s husband, who was in Berlin when his wife and son were killed, is staying at his mother’s house, he hasn’t seen the crime scene – and William can’t honestly blame him if he decides not to. He has had to identify the bodies and that is more than enough. 

Victoria is not saying a word, as usual, she stands by his side, observing the crime scene – but her worry for him is palpable. 

“Why did he set up a scene with them? Why did he deviate from the pattern?” He wonders aloud.

Mrs Taylor and her son have been killed in the sitting room, but it all started in their respective bedrooms.  They were brought to the sitting room, for some reason, and were killed. William has no idea why, it doesn’t make any sense.

“Mrs. Taylor is not like the others –“ Victoria says softly, “she was a mother, she was not high risk.” She sighs before adding, “as for the scene – perhaps the killer knows her husband?”

They have been over that – but Mrs. Taylor’s husband is a pianist and his instinct tells him that he has nothing to do with the killer. Nevertheless, perhaps Victoria is right, perhaps there is something different about the scene because there is clearly a personal element to that double murder.

He steps closer to the sofa and blinks his eyes.

He knows that if he doesn't tell her now,  while everything is just so close to the surface he never will.

“I found them in the sitting room – that is why Emma and all the bloody Yard didn’t want me to see the crime scene.” William says.

“Except that – Augustus, my son, was lying on the sofa and Caro – on the floor.” He says. He blinks his eyes. He can still see it so vividly, time has not frayed that image, he hears himself whispering, “she was holding his hand. He loved it when one of us did.”

He turns to look at her: they are alone, no one can hear or see them, not their colleagues, not her family – and the timing might be rubbish, but the words just flow out of his mouth and that place has already been violated by terrible deaths, it’s not like he can make things worse.

Victoria doesn’t move, she opens her mouth; but doesn’t talk, doesn’t ask questions. He is grateful.

“It’s my fault, you know?” He says, “I forgot my mobile in my coat – I should have checked, but she hadn’t seen Augustus for such a long time, and she seemed to be better.”

She doesn’t know – she doesn’t understand. He can see it in her face and read it in her eyes.

“William –“ She whispers his name and steps closer to him; he sees how she lets her hand drop before she can touch him. He appreciates her gesture more than he can say. 

“You really don’t listen to any gossip, do you?” He asks, he is smiling but his eyes are stinging. He knows there won’t be any tears, though – they never come.   

Victoria hesitates before saying, “They talk about an ‘after’, but I usually tune them out after a few words.”

“Caro, my wife, was – “ He trails. He still has no words to properly describe his wife. “she was – a remarkable woman, a free spirit and – being married to me wasn’t easy. I was never home and when I was I brought my job with me.”

He has been told countless times not to blame himself, but that is the truth – he is as responsible as Caro for how spectacularly wrong things have gone between them. He failed her. He has failed his family.  

“Augustus – had problems, but we weathered that storm. He was – a joy to watch.” He whispers and the smile he can feel on his face hurts like a jagged instrument. He remembers Augustus playing with his badge, proudly repeating that his dad was a policeman, a hero – he remembers how looking at his son’s trusting eyes, marveling at his innocence made everything worth it – it made him feel like he was making the world a better place for him.

“We tried to have another baby – even if by that time Caro was not well.” He says. And that is an understatement. Caro was drinking herself to sleep, shagged whoever she pleased, whenever she pleased – and he just pretended it was not happening because Augustus needed his mother, because his wedding vows still mattered to him. He still loved her.

“My daughter, Emily, lived exactly seventy-four hours.” He rasps. He can’t tell Victoria how long he held his daughter in his arms, after. He can’t tell anyone, he never has, what it meant having to tell Caro and Augustus.

He can’t even fathom telling that young woman how devastatingly heartbreaking Caro’s cries were, in the hospital room, how his arms ached because he had held his baby daughter in his arms and his body just could not cope with the reality – it rejected it, with an ache he could still feel. It never truly went away. He doubts it ever will.  

“As you can imagine, things went wrong after that – Caro could not accept Emily’s death – our family fell apart.” He says. That is the easy part, the part everyone knows. It is the watered down version of what truly happened: the disintegration of his wife’s mental health and his son’s crisis getting worse and worse.

He stops talking for a moment. He is breathless – part of him wants to tell Victoria to run as far away from him as possible, but he also wants to reach out, grab her hand and plead with her never to leave him – because he knows that not having her in his life would probably kill him at that point.

“What happened?” She asks. He starts, he doesn’t know how long he has been silent, still, looking at the room. She sounds worried and her voice is nasal and he wants to reassure her he is fine, he truly does, but she can read right through him and she would know it is not the truth. Not really.

“We separated, but – she was Augustus’ mother and she visited,” He says, “I thought she was getting better – she seemed more centered, she had started painting again, I guess I’m not as good a detective as I thought.”

He smiles when he sees that she clearly wants to object to those words, she touches his arm and he barely refrains from touching her.

“The autopsy showed that Augustus – died first, his crises had gotten worse and Caro had too much Xanax in her system. She must have discovered the body – she tried to call me and then who the fuck knows what went through her mind... It doesn't change the fact that – she killed herself.”

“So, the after you have heard about ? It’s _after_ I was cleared of any suspicions; it is  _after_ I had to bury my only son and wife.” He says.

He steps back from her and says, “I did not shag my way through Scotland Yard – in fact, before you arrived I was contemplating whether there was a point to keep living at all –“

She flinches at his words, “How can you say that?” She asks. He is still good at hurting the women he loves: he can hear the disbelief and pain in her voice. God, she should stay away from him.

William doesn’t look at her, “You – gave me a reason to wanting to wake up in the morning, you reminded me how to smile – so, now you know.”

Not everything. He doesn’t tell her that he is in love with her. He can’t. It’s not fair, not after everything he has just told her. He has far too much baggage, she needs to know that  – he owes her his honesty.

Victoria blinks her eyes, he doesn’t think he has ever seen tears in them, but they are there, now – he knows it’s not pity, she is – grieving, for him. He didn’t think his heart could break again – but it does. He can’t see tears in her eyes. He desperately wants to wipe them away, but he can’t move.

If they were other people, if they were not on a crime scene with dried blood on the sofa and the chair and its coppery smell everywhere, things would be different, perhaps.

They are not other people, though – they are who they are: he is damaged and broken and she is a force to be reckoned with, she has brought him back to life.

If they were other people he would touch her, she would say something, anything – but they are not, they are just William and Victoria.

She brushes his arm with her fingertips, there are tears on her face, but his eyes are dry.

“Let’s get out of here….” She says.

He nods.

And if, for a moment, they walk hand in hand in the hallway outside, if he can properly, truly breathe for the first time since he got inside his flat and saw his family _dead_ , well – there are always exceptions.

 

* * *

 

It’s three in the morning. He knows because he has checked the alarm clock on his bedside table. It’s three in the morning and someone is knocking at his door. It’s Saturday – no, actually it’s Sunday morning and that must be a nightmare.

He has drank too much the previous night. One rumor about him _is_ partly true – he does tend to drink too much, but only on his free time.

He bumps into something in the dark, curses and goes to the door and has the surprise of his life when he sees Victoria on the other side: she is wearing a large coat over her pajamas, her hair is loose on her shoulders (he must be having one hell of an alcohol induced dream, he thinks for a moment) and she looks relieved when he opens the door.

There is a moment where neither of them says a word and he is suddenly aware of the fact that he is wearing only a t-shirt and his pajamas bottom.

“Victoria –“ He says, “what are you doing here?”

She barges into the room and he realises that it is not a dream, they are both awake, she has never been in his flat and he is not sure he wants to know why she is there in the middle of the night.

“You weren’t answering your phone!” She says.

He is still half drunk and it takes him a moment to understand what she is saying.

“It’s – three in the morning.” He says.  

“You _always_ answer your phone!” She says, she sounds relieved and pissed off and does she really have kittens on her pajamas?

“Please,” He says noticing that she is looking around, “make yourself at home!”

They truly haven’t been alone since they have talked – since he has told her about his family; she has been called to Prague that same afternoon to testify for one of her cases while she worked for Interpol, and it’s been almost a week since they have seen each other.

He gestures toward the sofa and she sits on it, and she truly looks like a kid, with her pajama, her trainers, and her oversized coat. And God, he has missed her!

“I was –“ Victoria trails shaking her head. She is embarrassed, and for a moment he is still not sure whether that is not a dream. He suspects they must look like two perfect idiots.

“I’m fine.” He says. He can’t truly be mad at her for caring, not after their last conversation.

“Are you?” She asks and looks at him, and he knows that look – he has seen it directed at suspects, at reticent witnesses: she doesn’t believe him.

“It’s my week end off. I have had a few pints, but I am fine!” He says. He sounds defensive to his own ears. He sounds angry  – and he possibly is. Which is surprising, he usually has a tight control on his emotions.

“I am _not_ suicidal, Victoria – and I thought you did not listen or believe in gossip!” He snaps, he can’t help himself – he should shut up, tell her that waking him up in the middle of the night after a long week and too many pints is not a good idea. 

He should tell her that he appreciates her concern, that he has missed her – and that he likes her pajamas, he should not snap at her. She doesn’t deserve it.

 “I see…” She says and the tone of her voice is frosty, she stands up and – for a moment, just one moment, he sees one of the reasons why people call Victoria her Majesty at work: she _is_ regal, she is – controlled in her anger, but she is furious  – and disappointed. 

“I should not have come,” She says, “I apologise,”

She takes some steps toward the door and then turns and says, “You know what? I know you are not suicidal and I don’t care about bloody gossip!”

 She is trembling – her hands are balled into fists and he takes a step toward her.

There are about a million of reasons why he is aware that he should not get close to her, that he should let her be angry at him – it would be best for her in the long run. He is – a mess. She deserves so much more than him.

Yet, he moves because he is still half drunk, his defenses are low – decimated after the last few days, after missing her so much that even people at work knew better than remark on her absence.

He moves and he takes her closed fists in his hands.

“I know you don’t. I’m sorry. I was – “ He trails.

He doesn’t see it coming and there is nothing tentative or hesitant this time when she kisses him. She stands on her tiptoes and the angle is a bit awkward because he is still holding her hands and he truly did not expect her to kiss him.

 His back hits the wall and he lets go of her hands – his fingers trail up, brushing the thick wool of her coat and touching her hair, silky and smelling of vanilla and lemon, makes it suddenly very real.

He is kissing Victoria. Her small body is pressed against his and her hand is carding through his hair and he should break the kiss, he truly should.

He doesn’t think he can.

He doesn’t want to.

 

* * *

 

 

When William breaks the kiss Victoria fears he is going to send her away – she sees the doubts in his eyes, that absurd, unfounded, ridiculous conviction that she deserves more than him.

She touches his face with both her hands – somehow, she doesn’t know how or when, they have moved while kissing and her back is touching the wall behind her – and she is quite sure that it is not how the kiss started – she is pretty sure, in fact, that William has turned them, while they kissed. Not that it matters – what truly matters is being with William, is letting that man know, feel, understand that she cannot imagine ever living without him.

He closes his eyes, leaning into her touch and she smiles. She can’t help it. God, she loves that man!

“Victoria…” He whispers. He is still so close to her, their bodies are still pressed against each other’s, she can feel – literally – how much William wants her.

“I missed you.” She says. It’s the truth – there has not been a moment in the past few days, both in Prague and later at Vauxhall Cross, where she has not missed him, where she has not wished she was with him.

He chuckles, and that sound is somehow heartbreaking to hear; she wonders whether William realises how lost he sounds.

“You have no idea how much it is mutual,” He says, “but –“

She places a finger on his lips. She has kissed those lips, and dear Lord – he knows how to use them on her  – and she does not want him to continue talking, she doesn’t want him to voice his self-doubts.

“I realised something while I was away,” She says, and she hates that she has to be vague about the last few days – she _can’t_ tell him that she has only spent part of the past week in Prague and why, she takes a deep breath.

Kents never back down, never shy away from the truth and difficult situations.

She is rambling in her head, she is afraid – but her voice is clear when she says, “I love you.”

It’s three words, but – it’s so much more than the sum of them: it’s sharing coffee in the morning, laughing at the same jokes, it’s quick lunches at the canteen while she steals his chips and he lets her – and she has long suspected he orders them for her anyway. It’s long stakeouts and comfortable silences. It’s singing, both of them off key, snippets of songs in the car, while stuck in traffic, and changing the lyrics; it’s filing expense reports together and William fighting with his computer while she tries hard not to laugh. 

It’s his green eyes and the way he always, always instinctively shields her with his body when they are out in the streets, it’s being at Tesco and remembering to buy his favorite biscuits and running into him, one day, noticing he has done the same thing. He bought her favorite sweets. It’s texting each other about cases at random hours, bouncing off ideas and theories.

It’s his lips on hers, in an underground parking lot, his hand seeking hers, it’s the taste of his lips still tingling on hers. He is part of her. It is as simple as that.

It’s his lips, again, on hers, it’s him whispering against her skin, “I don’t want to drag you down with me!” He is desperate, he is – the best man she has ever met.

It’s her taking his face in her hands, again and saying, meaning each syllable, “You won’t. I love you.”

 _Please. Don’t send me away – don’t punish yourself again._ She pleads, with her eyes, with her lips, and with those blasted tears that she cannot stop.

He kisses her, again and again, he kisses those stupid tears away – and she is trembling, she fears her heart is going to burst in her chest. She is not a blushing virgin, not by a long shot, but with William it sort of feels like a series of firsts: falling in love, kissing, the way he holds her – how the coat (seriously, what the hell was she thinking?) slips on the floor and how she can’t help a gasp a surprise when he effortlessly scoops her up in his arms. And, yes, for a moment she does feel like a blushing virgin, and she sort of likes it.

She is wearing her rattiest pajamas, she wasn’t exactly thinking straight when she grabbed an old coat, her car’s keys and drove to his flat. He doesn’t seem to mind, and she cares even less when he gently lowers her to his bed.

His hands trail on her body – and she is quite sure he is ruining her for any other man: because no one has ever touched her like he is doing – it’s fire and devotion and trust and everything that man is to her in each brush of fingertips, in how he curls his hand around one hip and it’s a moot point anyway because there will be no one else for her. There cannot be.

His skin is soft, smooth – warm and she can’t stop kissing, tasting it as she helps him out of his t-shirt (it is entirely possible that they are both slobs who sleep in ratty clothes. It must be fate, part of her rambles), and she arches her head seeking his lips when they are finally – _finally_ skin to skin.

William, of course, cannot stop being himself. Not even then.

“We can’t…” He says, pants actually against her lips.

She blinks her eyes and shakes her head, “What – why?”

He kisses her and smiles against her lips, “Are you pouting?” He asks. She loves his smile. But then again, she is biased. She can’t say she cares.

She is about to burst into flames, truth be told, but she can’t help a small chuckle at his words, before saying, “William –“

“I don’t have –“ He says and there is, apparently, a lot of truth about the rumor that they finish each other’s sentences and have a weird sort of telepathy going on because she blushes as realization sets in and whispers, “condoms….”

He nods and breaks their embrace.

“I don’t care – ” She says.

“I do –“ He says – and that’s his protectiveness out in full force and she knows from experience that he won’t be budged.

He kisses her forehead – and if it is supposed to be a chaste kiss things don’t go exactly according to William’s plans because she seeks his lips with hers – and he responds, and his fingertips leave a trail of goosebumps and fire on her sides as he touches her.

“Damn…” She breathes when oxygen becomes an issue, forcing her to break the kiss  and she feels like William’s taste has seeped throughout her soul.

There is a mischievous look in his eyes when he chuckles and says, “You are pouting again…”

“Yep…” She replies and – she can’t believe that she is in the man’s bed, they are both almost naked and just talking to him – seeing that look in his eyes can be so arousing. Yep, definitely ruined her for any other man.

“Let’s see if I can do something about it…” He says.

It turns out that he is definitely up for the challenge. In a lot of ways.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been a long time since he has shared his bed with a woman. In fact, he is reasonably sure Victoria is the first woman who has slept in his bed, in his flat. That is the point where he would usually panic, find excuses or on some memorable occasion just be an arsehole and leave.

He is waiting for the panic to set in – but it is not coming. He feels more centered, calm than he has felt  for years. He has been roused from his sleep by an armful of brunette sergeant, love of his life, mumbling something in Czech in his ear. At least he thinks it’s Czech.  

She mumbles in her sleep, she looks – so innocent and he cannot stop looking at her. He doesn’t have to, he doesn’t want to.

She loves him – she has told him, twice, she has shown him with her kisses, with how her body responds to his. She loves him – and he knows the taste of her skin, now. He knows the tiny, soft sounds she makes right before she climaxes, how bright her eyes are after an orgasm and he knows the feeling of her lips on his body.

He loves her – that is nothing new, not really. It is probably the worst kept secret in the Commonwealth, and he doesn’t care.

Victoria is not a blanket hog, he has discovered, she has managed, however, to steal his pillow and for a moment he wants to wake her up (thus risking her wrath because she is _not_ a morning person, and she is frankly terrifying before she has her first cup of coffee, as he found out pretty soon in their partnership) and tell her that he loves her.

He doesn’t. She mumbles something else, in – what he thinks is Farsi, but, once again, he cannot be sure, she knows about a million of languages, according to her records, and he covers her body with the blanket. He can’t help smiling. She will probably forsake the blanket and use him as a pillow within minutes, but he doesn’t really care.

She snuggles against him and he closes his eyes.

 _Just this once…_ He thinks.

“I love you….” He whispers, kissing the crown of her head.

She doesn’t hear him, and that is rather the point.

 

 

* * *

 

Victoria groans when she sees her uncle’s car outside her flat. She considers the idea of going back to William, but she is not a coward. She has never been. She is not about to start now.

She is still wearing her ratty pajamas and that old monstrosity of a coat she bought in a vintage shop when she was nineteen and never got around to have it remodeled, which is about three sizes too large for her,  the only difference is that her hair is picked up in a ponytail and she has borrowed one of William’s scarves to cover a hickey (two, actually) on her neck. She suspects William will never let her live it down her sudden self-consciousness, while still wearing pajamas, without pants, and that – coat. Seriously, what the hell was she thinking?

He gets out of the car as soon as she is outside the door and she plasters her fakest smile on her lips.

“I have been waiting for you.” He says.

“Lucky me!” She says. She opens the door and gestures him inside.

She loves her uncle. She truly does. When she was a child, after her father died, she wanted to grow up to be just like him. She grew out of that phase, but her uncle has never stopped being – himself, apparently.

“Tea?” She asks once they are inside.

“Can you actually brew tea?” He asks cocking an eyebrow at her, he sits on her favorite armchair and smiles.

“Nope. You know that I’m a coffee girl, but – how hard it can be?” She says.  

Her uncle smiles. He loves her – in his own controlling, smothering, dysfunctional way.

“Just – water, please.” He says.

She sighs while she takes bottled water from her fridge and steels herself for what is about to come: the lecture, her whole family history dating back to their very first ancestor stepping in England during the battle of Hastings, possibly, and how much of a disgrace she is.

“Interesting attire…” Her uncle says, accepting the bottle with a tilt of his head.

 _And here we are…_ she thinks. She takes off her coat and sits on her couch asking, “Is there anything I can do for you, uncle?”

“I tried to call you.” He says.

“I forgot my mobile here.” She replies, without missing a beat. Well, it _is_ the truth.  

“Evidently.” He says. Just once – would it kill her uncle to get to the bloody point without turning everything into a chess game? She sighs and says, “Can’t  you just tell me why are you here? Please?”

“You did a good job – your contribute was pivotal.” He says.

Not _that_ again.

“I translated a few phone calls and analysed a few strings of data.” She replies drily.

She is not, technically speaking, a SIS, but she does have a high-security clearance – and she is, despite everything, Queen and Country. It’s in her blood. It’s what her family, with a few notable exceptions, has done for generations. It’s who she is.   

“And it was most appreciated.” Her uncle says.

“I am not working for you, uncle. It is never going to happen.” She says. She doesn’t shudder, but it’s a close call.

“You do realise, of course, that you cannot keep working with your dear detective inspector, don’t you?” He asks.

 _Thank God –_ the gloves are finally off.

“I don’t see why not.” She says. She doesn’t like playing dumb, she hates it, in fact, but she is not lying either.  

Her uncle studies her for a moment, she knows there are boundaries not even he will cross, even when he asked her whether William had made a pass at her, his wording had been so convulted that she is sure her eye roll has been caught on Google maps. This doesn’t mean he can’t still use the truth as a weapon as she finds out immediately.

“His reputation is already – _opaque_ , so to speak, the fallout will hurt him and his career. Too bad, I hear he is an excellent officer.” He says. And it’s not a hypothetic or a worst case scenario, she knows he is telling her exactly what is going to happen.

Her family will protect her, her reputation is not going to suffer – Kents never get dragged through the mud. She _knows_ her family history, she has seen it happen.  

“Are you –“ She pauses, “what exactly are you trying to do?”

He is blackmailing her, he is threatening the man she loves – and he is doing it while sipping her water and smiling.

“I am merely telling you the truth, Victoria. Playing stupid does not become you.” He says.

“So – what do you suggest I do? Leave him?” She asks.

He actually laughs at her words and she very much wants to use her taser on him. Too bad it is in her car, really.

“Oh, Lord no…what do you think I am, a monster or some operetta villain? I am offering you a solution –“ He says.

It is debatable whether her uncle is a monster or not. She is not her biggest supporter at the moment, that is for sure.  

“Let me guess: join the family business?” She asks. She is touching William’s scarf, somehow it gives her strength.

He rolls his eyes, the thing is – that her uncle is truly the closest thing to a father she has got. Her step father is possibly the vilest man she has ever met, and she catches murderers, thieves and rapists for a living.

She loves him – and she knows that he wants to protect her.  
His methods are absolutely rubbish, but she has never doubted his good intentions.

“You would still be here in London – he would keep his job, to use one of your beloved colloquialisms, ‘it’s a win-win situation’, don’t you think?” He says.

“I love my job!” She replies. And it’s the truth: she loves her job – she is getting good at it and she feels like she has finally found her place in the world.  

“And you also clearly love Detective Inspector Melbourne,” He says, “Victoria, you are _not_ a child. You know perfectly well that we cannot have everything we want. Life is seldom that fair.”

Her uncle lost his wife and newborn daughter to a childbirth gone horribly wrong. He sends people to suicide missions every day – and she is possibly the only person who knows, who has seen the burden he carries, how lonely he truly is. He is a powerful man, but he is also – alone.  

 “Would you really ruin his career because you want me at MI5?” She asks.

“MI6, actually – and I would _never_ do such a thing!” He says, “but I think you know it is only a matter of time before your relationship ceases to be a secret. You are not even trying, for God’s sake!”

She bursts out laughing. She can’t help it. There is amusement, pride and outrage in her uncle’s voice and on his face. His lips twitch, trying hard to suppress a smile and, for a moment, it’s like when she was a kid and his house in Belgravia was the only escape she had from her mother and the despicable man she married. He is the man who taught her to drive and play poker – who taught her to love Opera and the Rolling Stones, who taught her the best tricks to avoid hangovers.    

“Think it over,” He says, “I truly want you to be happy, Victoria – and I genuinely believe you will be a precious asset to our secret services.”

He gets up from the armchair and smiles at her, he is at the door when he says, “Lovely scarf, Victoria – the love bites are still visible, though.”

“Get out –“ She mumbles, trying hard not to blush.

“My assistant shall bring you the CCTV feeds tomorrow. As you know I have been quite busy, I could not attend your request before, I apologise.” Her uncle says. He is smiling.

“Thank you.” She says.

“Be careful.” He says. He lingers for a moment on the threshold. She sees he wants to add something, she also realises that it is the first time he has ever told her to be careful. Kents know and accept the risks – it is one of the million of rules her family has.

He doesn’t say anything, he leaves her flat without adding another word. She realises that he doesn’t disapprove of her relationship with William – not really.

She cannot help thinking that his words feel like a goodbye, somehow. She doesn’t like that feeling – she doesn’t like the sense of foreboding his words have caused.  

 

* * *

 

It’s Victoria’s week end off, they have worked hard and he’s _definitely_ reconsidering his stance on agnosticism because there have been no surprises at work: he has wrapped up things at a decent hour, Victoria has texted him asking him to bring some red wine and it feels nothing short than a miracle.

Her flat is frankly impressive and it is also the only thing he has seen about her that gives away that she comes from very old money, there is no way a sergeant could ever afford her living arrangements,  but she is wearing an old pair of jeans and a blue sweater, he thinks he loves the sight of the fading hickeys on her neck a tad too much, and when she kisses him he decides that he doesn’t really care about any of that, not really.

They have had dinner – and he wonders whether Victoria will ever cease to surprise him: she is an excellent cook –  they are on her sofa, to be precise they are sprawled on her sofa, they are listening to Pink Floyd (and if he had any lingering doubts about her being the love of his life, her cd collection has officially proved that she is) when he realises that they are sort of having their first date.

When he tells that to Victoria she almost chokes on her wine and and shakes her head, giggling.

“What?” He says.

“You are one weird man, William…” She says, but she is smiling, and he wants to tell her that he loves her. He truly does.

That is when her door bell rings.

“Are you expecting someone?” He asks.

Victoria’s purses her lips, there is a look in her eyes he has never seen before: she looks almost scared. And very, very angry.

“No,” She says, “but that has never stopped him before.”

 

* * *

 

 

Victoria is right: her stepfather is, to use her own words, a big bag of dicks. Victoria’s uncle is a pompous pillock, but he cares about his niece. His concern for her, when they met, was genuine, so was his pride for his niece’s accomplishments. He might not have liked the man snooping in his private life and his past, but he is – _was_ a father, he understands his concerns.

John Conroy – doesn’t care about Victoria, it is clear from the contempt on his face and eyes, from the way he looks at her and the way he addresses her.

He wants to punch him.

“Victoria,” The man says when he enters. William has noticed that Victoria has not invited him in, he doesn’t think he has ever seen her like that: for a moment she looks like a little girl, terribly self conscious and angry.

“John,” She says after a moment. The man’s lips twitch with distaste, he looks at him and William takes a step forward, his instinct taking over – and it is something he has rarely experienced: the copper, the lover – are one and the same. He wants to shield Victoria, he wants her far away from that man. He is – _disgusting_.  

And it kills him that Victoria is accepting his moment of machismo, while she usually makes it very clear that she can take care of herself, that she is not a damsel in distress.  

“It is true, then,” Victoria’s stepfather says, “I was hoping your mother was overreacting, oh, _Drina –_ what were you thinking?”

Yes. He _definitely_ is a big back of dicks. Victoria is absolutely right. When she first mentioned that to him he had thought she was exaggerating. He should have known better. Victoria is always fair in her judgment of people.

The man doesn’t even acknowledge his presence in the room, he looks at Victoria as if she is a dog who has just peed on his Persian rug. William is not a violent person by nature, but he is seriously contemplating knocking the man out cold.

“Tell mummy that I am fine.” Victoria says. She is civil, but just barely so.

 _This can’t end well._ He thinks. He has been in the vicinity of bombs about to go off, the atmosphere in that room isn’t much different.

“She would know if you bothered to call her,” The man replies sharply, “she will be so heartbroken over the scandal…”

 She rolls her eyes, but her voice is frosty when she says, “Hyperbole is so unbecoming, John, even coming from you… ”

 Her hair is loose on her shoulders, he knows that her lips are still swollen with their kisses and she is barefoot – and somehow the man is taking advantage of that. He has no idea how he accomplishes that, but he clearly sees the girl Victoria must have been and he can’t help but taking another step forward.

He is behind her, now. He sees that her shoulders slightly relax when she feels him getting close to her.

“ _Drina,_ ” The man says, shaking his head. He is all but tzking at her, “you are already a laughingstock, I thought you could not make things worse for yourself and our family, I was evidently wrong.”

Conroy looks at him, acknowledging his existence for the first time since he has entered her flat. He dismisses him with a disgusted look and William puts a hand on Victoria’s shoulder.  

He is – despicable. He is not interested in Victoria, not really.  He doesn’t care that she is good at her job, that she loves it – he doesn’t even care about the fact that, for some reason William can’t honestly fathom, she is in love with him – and she is seemingly happy.

“I am confused…” Victoria says, after a moment of silence. Oh, he _knows_ that tone of voice. He has heard it before, during interrogations, when she is about to go for some suspect’s jugular. He is tempted to smile. That man clearly doesn’t know Victoria. At all.  

“Whose family, exactly, are you talking about?” Victoria asks. She is short, her hair is a loose mess on her shoulders (he might be responsible for that), she is barefoot, but she is absolutely magnificent. How can’t that man see it?

“Not mine,” She continues, “not the Kents, surely.” She holds her head up high. Her stepfather is very tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his coat alone is worth two months of their combined salaries, but she is – larger than life.

She is – every inch a fighter, a warrior, a soldier, a spy, a civil servant, a copper and he is immensely proud of her.  

He feels like he’s watching something that has been a long time in the making, he can feel Victoria’s anger, her pride – the weight of a family that has faithfully served the country and the Crown for generations, and he feels that he doesn’t know the whole extent  of her family’s loyalty and power.

He doesn’t know – and he will wait for her to tell the story – just how much that man has hurt her in the past.

“You are a glorified accountant,” Victoria seethes, “nothing more. Do not ever presume to know anything about _my_ family!”

She is proud of her name, she is proud of her family history, he realises. She has just chosen a different way to serve her country, to make the world a better place.

“I am your –“ Conroy starts, but Victoria is resolute, now. If that man truly thought that he could shame Victoria by showing up announced and surprising them together, he clearly doesn’t know her.    

“You  know _nothing_ about my family,” She seethes, “you just fuck my father’s widow, that is the closest you will ever get to be a Kent!”

  That is the first time he has ever heard Victoria really swearing, she is a very passionate woman, but he knows, after so long, that she usually keeps a tight lid over her emotions. He is startled by the hatred he hears in her voice.

“Drina –“ Conroy whispers. He too is shocked by her outburst.

“Victoria. _Drina_ was the child you shipped to Wycombe the day after her father’s funeral!”  She says.

“You keep seeing yourself as a Dickensian mistreated child, I see,” The man says somberly, “shall I remind you what you just told me about hyperbole?”

She turns toward him and says, “William – can you leave us alone for a moment?”

She is smiling, but he can see that she is fighting back tears, he nods and squeezes her shoulder.

He doesn’t want to leave her, not with that man, he has the horrible feeling that he has hurt her more than she lets on, but Victoria smiles at him and says, “It won’t be a moment.”

He doesn’t know what she tells him after he leaves the living room, he didn’t mean to go into her bedroom, it feels preposterous, even though they are lovers, but it is the only room where he can go to afford her some privacy.

He understands why she keeps stealing his pillows: there are about a hundred of them on her bed, he notices a framed picture on her night table, he sits on the bed as he takes it in his hands, smiling; she must have been not more than ten when the picture was taken, she is happily smiling, she is riding on the same horse with a man with dark hair and her same blue eyes.  

He sighs, placing the framed picture back on the night table. He doesn’t hear what they are saying – he suspects that Victoria has her own demons she is not ready to share with him, not yet. He doesn’t hear the man leave, and – he doesn’t know how long he stays there, in that room before he knows – feels that Victoria is not coming, not after talking to that man.

He gets out of the room and finds her in the bathroom, she is sitting on the floor, her face is wet – she has cried and washed her face, he deduces.

“Victoria –“ He says.

She looks up and her lips quiver for a moment before she says, “He called me a whore.”

He sighs. His hands are shaking with rage, but – his personal feelings will have to wait. He sits down on the floor next to her, both their backs are against the bathtub, he takes her hand in his and notices how cold it is.

“You are not a whore!” He says.

Her lips quiver again and her eyes are filling up with tears, and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He knows it’s not the words that man must have said to her – it’s something that runs deeper, scars that he is only been allowed to glimpse now.

She hides her face in the crook of his shoulder and he feels her tears against his skin.

He doesn’t talk, she seems small, smaller than her actual frame, for a moment, when he holds her in his arms and for once she lets her defenses completely down.

“He can still get under my skin –“ She mumbles,

She tilts her head up, her chin is on his shoulder, “I’m sorry –“ she says.

“Don’t –“ He says, his voice is hoarse, he hates that she feels the need to apologise to him for what happened. “I should be sorry.” He says, “it’s my fault-“

She wipes tears from her face with her hands and shakes her head, “You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She truly means her words; he can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. He kisses her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her dimples, her lips.

He can’t say the words – as much as he wants to, but she smiles and her laughter is genuine when he says, “Perhaps your uncle could make him disappear…”

“Don’t tempt me,” She says, “not now…”

They don’t move, even if the floor is cold and neither of them is particularly comfortable. He hears her breathing, feels as her body relaxes against his own and he thinks he could spend the rest of his life like that, with her.

He truly could.

He wants to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “William – I am not James Bond,” She says, “I analyse data, I translate electronic surveillance. It’s the least glamorous and dangerous thing in the world, I promise.”
> 
> She furrows her brows and adds, “Sweetheart? Really?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok - it was supposed to be a far shorter fic than it's turning out to be. I did not want to post a long chapter so I'm splitting it in two, hence the fourth part which I will post as soon as possible.   
> Warning: angst. Like, a lot of angst.   
> Also? Smut.  
> Thank you for the feedbacks and kudos and all the support.   
> Vicbourne is soul consuming, but hey, it's such a sweet hell:)

That can’t be happening: either he is drunker than he thought (and he is truly not, his alcohol consumption has dramatically reduced since Victoria and him have become lovers) or – his best friend and his lover are, which is possible, he supposes. But still…

 He admits he was nervous on the way to Emma’s flat; Victoria doesn’t know or is generously pretending not to, how giant a leap of faith that evening has truly been for him.

Emma knows his past: the good, the bad, the ugly and the frankly terrifying, and since his family is scattered all around the globe for one reason or another, she is the closest thing he has to one.

Since that was a date Victoria had graciously allowed him to drive, it had been a surprise to find out that they were both old-fashioned about some things.

Granted, she still won’t let him pay for her when they go out and eat together, especially not during office hours, but it has been nice to wait outside her flat, open the car’s door for her and compliment her on her beauty.  

Victoria was nervous as well, she confessed in the car that she had sort of been jealous of Emma for a while.

“Really? I didn’t notice.” William lied, blinking his eyes.

 “God, you are pants at lying, you know that?” She said laughing, but her hand sought his on the stick shift and it stayed there.

Victoria and Emma get along like a house on fire, which is a relief for him  – but he is honestly scared for a moment when Emma starts to tell stories about their Cambridge days; she edits Caro out of some of them, but he knows how good Victoria is at reading between the lines, and he sees how Emma is studying Victoria and the approval he sees in her eyes is comforting.

She also embarrasses them by sharing some of the gossips she has heard about them, and William is mortified, at first, but Victoria is leaning into him, her fingers draw imaginary patterns on his right thigh, under the table, and some of that drivel is honestly funny and Victoria’s reaction is priceless.

“Wait –“ Victoria asked after Emma shared a particular lurid piece of gossip about them, coming from accounting, of all places, “Is that even physically possible? I mean -”

“Well, he _is_ a stud according to popular gossip…” Emma commented wryly.

He doesn’t think he has laughed that hard for years.

He is in the kitchenette, hours later, he is washing the dishes with Ruth, Emma’s partner of almost twenty-five years, talking about tennis (rather, Ruth is talking, he is just nodding in the right places) when they both stop, dead in their tracks, hearing Emma and Victoria squeal together like little girls.

“I am almost afraid to know,” Ruth says, but she is smiling. He rinses another plate and shakes his head. It feels so – _normal_ , so domestic: having dinner with two of his eldest and closest friends with his girlfriend – he is not used to that. Things with Caro had always been so dramatic, so intense and borderline, that it is possibly the first time in his adult life that he is truly at peace.  

He is smiling too. It’s hard not to smile lately or feel like all that can’t possibly be happening to him. He still doesn’t think he deserves it, it doesn’t matter how many times Victoria tells him that she is exactly where she wants to be.

Ruth’s smile widens when they both hear the intro of a familiar song coming from the sitting room but she shakes her head and says, “Oh,  I've got to see _this_!”

They both get out of the kitchenette and stop when they see the scene in front of them in the sitting room.

It can’t be happening, he spots immediately the source of the music: the iPod in its docking station (Ruth’s)  and he sees how Emma is looping her arm around Victoria’s shoulders, she is taller than her, they are both holding their bottles of beers, while singing “Without You”, ( _butcher_ is apter a word, frankly), they are singing along Harry Nilsson, in the middle of the sitting room, and William is part horrified and part incredulous, and he cannot stop smiling to save his life, and when Victoria looks at him, singing at the top of her lungs, her cheeks flushed, he falls in love with her all over again.

He has sort of lost count at that point of how many times that has happened.  

_I can't live if living is without you_  
I can't live, I can't give anymore  
I can't live if living is without you  
I can't give, I can't give anymore

 

“She is crazy about you, you know? You’re lucky, Will…” Ruth says, right before she joins the ladies and sings with them. He swears he can hear a couple of dogs howl outside, they truly are _terrible_ , but he cannot tear his eyes away from Victoria and how brightly she is smiling at him.

 _You have no idea…_ He thinks.

His smile widens and when a few minutes later another song starts, it feels perfectly natural to hold out a hand and inviting her to slow dance with him, in the same room on whose sofa he has crashed countless times, drunk or paralysed by grief – sometimes both.

She is a bit unsteady on her feet and he catches her before she can trip (bloody high heels. They will need to talk about them, he thinks) and holds her at him, she looks happy and he still can’t believe that he is the one responsible for that look in her eyes.

“I would dance with you every night,” She mumbles against his chest. She is adorably drunk and William smiles ignoring how Emma and Ruth are looking at them. He knows he will never, _ever_ live it down. He couldn’t care less if he tried.

He holds her even tighter at him and he is not sure whether she hears him when he whispers, “I would very much love to…”

He means every syllable.

 

* * *

 

 

The bastard escalates. They were right – even if they had all hoped not to.

 CCTV feeds have proved to be completely useless. They have spent hours going through the feeds – and all for nothing. 

The fifth victim is found in her own bathtub, her head and hands chopped off. Her mother, worried because she didn’t pick up her phone, has found her body. She is beside herself when they arrive at the crime scene. It takes just a look and then Victoria takes the woman away and he knows he will gently coax her into telling her what happened.

 The woman's flat looks like a war zone, but the bathroom is _worse:_ it’s small and there is so much blood, bones fragments, and fluids in it, that even Emma who has worked on forensics for most of her adult life grimaces at the sight.  

He is happy that Victoria is not there, at least not for the first part – he knows she will join them as soon as she makes sure someone drives the victim’s mother home, but by then the body will not be there, he hopes.

“Jesus Christ –“ Emma mutters as she takes samples, “this is bad – look at the blood on the tiles: she must have been alive when he chopped  her hands off …”

He trusts Emma’s word, he exhales a shuddery breath. He is not squeamish, but he can still see Mrs. Taylor and her son – the terrified looks on their faces, the blood and how the bastard set up the scene. Their serial killer and they can’t deny it any longer that he is one – they can and have discussed about his methods, whether there is a sexual component in his murders and all sort of bollocks he doesn’t truly care about, but the fact of the matter is that the bastard is killing people and he has escalated. It will get worse. It always happens.

Emma all but kicks him out from the bathroom and he is not surprised when he finds Victoria  in the landing outside the flat, she is holding a walkie-talkie in her left hand and she is listening to what a constable is telling her and she may be shorter than the man she is talking to, but she commands his full attention.

She wordlessly hands him her notes and dismisses the constable with the precise instruction to keep the press and civilians away from the premises and to check the bloody basement.

“That bad?” They both say at the same time.

“Yep…” She says, “I see a press conference in our future. Oh, and no one saw or heard anything. How unsurprising!”

“It’s a – slaughterhouse in the bathroom.” He says and that is the only way he can describe what he has just seen.

She nods, he sees the grim look in her eyes. She is not particularly squeamish, but that crime scene _is_ bad, it ranks among the worst William has seen and he has seen the bodies of the victims of terrorist attacks in 2005.

He also knows that she is right: the neighbors must not have heard anything or are pretending not to and  there will be a press conference: journalists and vultures will want to know what in the bloody hell is going on and even if they both hate that side of their job, they know it is inevitable at that point.

They look at each other for a moment: their working theory – one that is not widely  popular with their colleagues is that the key to finding the bastard is in the Taylors double murder. It’s not like their colleagues don’t believe them, but they have no solid proofs: there is just something inherently wrong about that double murder: they know it is probably the same perpetrator, but the modus operandi, the choice of victims is all wrong.  

  “I’ll go and check before Emma bags the body,” She says, interrupting his musings.

  He checks her notes and he only half listens to what a constable is telling him about the victim’s neighbors: some of them didn’t hear anything, others thought Ms. Connelly was moving furniture in the middle of the night while listening to music. He sighs. He hates it when both Victoria and he are right about these things.

His gut is telling him that there is something different about that particular crime scene and that murder; he cannot explain what it is, not rationally; it is mostly a matter of instinct, and he is aware that it is  not enough to go on because that is not a movie or a program on telly where gut instinct solves cases, yet he can’t shake that feeling away.

There is something else as well, a sense of _dread_ at the pit of his stomach, one that has been sitting there, heavy as lead, since they have got the call to the crime scene.

He is still there, alone,  when Victoria gets out of the flat: she is pale, she is crossing her arms over her chest and her brow is furrowed.

“Victoria?” William asks.

She looks up, she is still wearing the nitrile gloves and she looks lost in thought.

“You were right,” She says, but her voice sounds off.

It’s the partner talking, her superior officer – when he asks, “Are you all right?”

Victoria nods, she takes off her gloves and says, “I just need some air,”

That has never happened before, not even on her first crime scene.

He cannot follow her; she is _not_ a child, and if she needs a  moment, if that crime scene has hit her, she wouldn’t be the first copper who experiences that. They are humans, after all.  He can’t follow her, he can’t make sure she is okay because – he can’t leave the crime scene until the body has been brought to the morgue until they have finished with the scene. It’s the procedure and he is the commanding officer on the crime scene.

She leaves and he doesn’t stop her. He is starting to understand the reason for all the rules about fraternization between colleagues.

He will think, later, that he didn’t have a clue. Not really.

 

* * *

 

 She is in his kitchenette when he comes home. Home, these days, is – wherever they can be together, whether it’s his flat or hers. He has a spare key of her flat and she has his, just like they have both cleared drawers in each other’s bedrooms and made room in their respective bathrooms for each other’s stuff.

It’s been gradual, much like their working relationship – they, apparently, are good at filling each other’s voids; they do not live together,  they don’t talk about the future, but he has bought more pillows for his bed and Victoria has bought a new espresso machine for his kitchenette, some of her CDs are there, in his sitting room, and there are books on his night table in Victoria’s bedroom. Home is – more than four walls, now.

   Victoria has disappeared for most of the day after they came back from the crime scene, without a proper explanation, other than a perfunctory, “I have to check on something.”

 She is wearing one of her ratty pajamas bottoms and one of his t-shirts, he notices that she has put together a quick dinner, but her face is pale and she looks tired. 

“Are you okay?” He asks.

He is – on edge, for some reason. Victoria is a grown woman, she doesn’t have to inform him of her every move. He trusts her, implicitly. Perhaps it’s because he has spent most of the day with a ball of dread sitting in his gut, looking at pictures of the crime scene and feeling her absence too keenly. Or, maybe, he is just a codependent tosser. He is not sure which.  

“I’m fine.” She says. There are copies of the crime scenes’ pictures on the table and her laptop is open. She doesn’t look _fine._

He wants to ask where the hell she has been, he wants to know why he feels like she is hiding something from him – and Victoria reads right through him. She is his partner, after all. She is – his lover, his best friend and the reason why he really has not drunk himself into an ethylic coma.

He is worried, though. He can’t help it.

“Really, William – I am fine. It’s just… _complicated,_ ” She says, “it’s about the case.”

He sits down and she seems relieved, somehow.

“Ms. Connelly – the last victim. I knew her.” She says.

“What – how?” He asks. The sense of dread in his gut intensifies. Why didn’t she tell him right away?

“She is – _was_ a civil servant.” She says. And _that_ answers his question, he supposes. She takes a deep breath and continues, “I have – done some research this afternoon and it turned out that all the victims have ties to MI6 and a specific ongoing program.”

She doesn’t mention which program it is, and – there are about a million of questions he wants to ask her right now, starting with when, exactly, she did start working for MI6, but the first thing that comes out of his mouth is about the case. She seems absurdly relieved.

“What about Mrs. Taylor and her son?” He asks.

She runs a hand through her hair, “This is where things get complicated – Mrs. Taylor and her son were not civil servants – but Mr. Taylor? William, I don’t have a high enough security clearance to go anywhere near his file.” She sounds frustrated at the mere thought.  

“Since when do you have a security clearance?” He asks. His head is spinning.  

 She blinks her eyes and the look on her face clearly tells him to focus on the case, that the rest can wait, and William lets out a sigh and says, “Okay – did you ask your uncle?”

“I did and he flat out refused to tell me anything about him. He _knew_ – he has known all along. For some reason he wants us to treat this as a serial killer case, but I truly don’t think it is.” Victoria says.

 She looks tired, he notices her red-rimmed eyes and wonders just how many hours she has spent reading files and investigating on her own. She doesn’t look worried about herself, though.

Well, William _is_ worried enough for both of them. That ball of dread in his stomach is making it hard to breathe, now.

“Victoria,” He asks after a moment, “are you working on that program too?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh and angry, he truly doesn’t – but he _is_ angry and worried. 

“Yes,” She admits after a moment, “in a minor capacity,”

He doesn’t expect her to tell him everything, God knows there are things he keeps to himself, things he can’t share with her or anyone else, but – he doesn’t understand why she didn’t tell him a word about _that_. Was she afraid he would be a sexist, chauvinist arsehole and forbid her to do what she wanted? Was she afraid he would not understand or support her?

He also doesn’t expect her to lie to him – because Victoria is a rubbish liar when she is not working. And yet she has lied to him, and he can’t help to feel that she still is.

“How long?” He asks. There are other questions, some of which should take the precedence over their personal lives because there are five dead people whose murders they have to solve, MI6 or not, but his priorities, apparently, are shot to hell.

Perhaps, he reasons, in the second it takes Victoria to answer, she has worked on that program all along, since they have met – and he understands the concept of _need_ _to_ _know_. He understands and respects the chain of command. Victoria comes from a family who was already powerful and had served the crown for ages when both MI5 and MI6 were created, after all.   

“William –“ She trails. She doesn’t want to answer him.

“How long?” He asks again. He can’t believe that what it’s shaping up to possibly be their first fight is about _that._ Normal couples fight about – imaginary or real lovers, about mundane things, he remembers a huge fight with Caro, at the beginning of their relationship, about laundry, of all things. 

“Since Prague,” She says eventually, “but  it’s –“

“Complicated. Yes. You told me.” William says. He feels numb. It’s not like Victoria has cheated on him, he has been through that, it’s a completely different feeling, but – it hurts, nevertheless. It hurts to speak and he is still, underneath it all, worried about the woman he loves.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” She says, “not when I was first asked and not – later. And it’s classified, I couldn’t and cannot talk about it, and I was just asked to translate a few phone calls and analyse data and I’m sorry –“ She is rambling.

It is the first time he sees her ramble and she looks adorable, and some of the anger he is feeling is fading – or rather it’s being redirected when he quickly connect the dots. He _is_ a good detective, after all.

“What did your uncle tell you to convince you?” He asks.

She is not surprised that he has said those words, that he has reached those conclusions; they have worked together for too long now. She knows him. And he knows that she trusted him to quickly connect the dots. It’s how they tick, after all.  

She reaches for his hand over the table and he takes it, he hangs on it, actually, because deep down he is truly scared, that ball of dread in his stomach is swelling and throbbing and he can’t fathom how Victoria’s uncle might have put her in such danger. So much for doing everything in his power to make sure that no harm would come to Victoria!

“Join the family business or –“ Victoria trails.

“Or…?” He asks. He suspects the answer, he knows he is going to hate it, but he needs to hear it anyway.

“ _Or_ when our relationship ceases to be the worst kept secret in Scotland Yard you will get dragged through the mud. For real.” She says, and she sounds ashamed. She is ashamed of her uncle and her powerful family. She is ashamed that she has not been completely forthcoming with him.  

“Victoria,” He says gently, “I have been dragged through the mud before…it would be nothing new for me.”

 “That’s the point!” She says, “you wouldn’t deserve it, you would lose your job and I cannot allow that happen, not because of me!”

“It’s just a job.” He says shrugging his shoulders, he is still holding her hand in his, they have entwined fingers and he supposes he should be angry at her, but he can’t.

“You love your job –“ Victoria says.

“It’s _just_ a job,” He repeats. Time was where he couldn’t  imagine having a different life,  not doing his job, where it was the only thing that kept him goùing at least through the motions. Things have changed, and it’s driving him crazy that Victoria might be put in an even remotely dangerous situation because of him.

 And bloody hell, why can’t he say the words? They’re resting there, just on the tip of his tongue, and they are _greatly_ overdue, “There are things  -“ He says eventually, “much more important to me. You should have told me.”

He is hopeless. He truly is. Emma would probably whack him across his head if she were there. He can’t be angry at Victoria. He just can’t.  

Victoria looks at him, he sees something in her eyes, a look he doesn’t think he has seen before, then she says, “I’m sorry.”

He believes her – and for a moment, just one moment, he is properly, truly scared of the power that young, extraordinary woman has over him. She could destroy him if she wanted: utterly and completely. The thing is that – there is not an ounce of doubt in his heart, in his mind, in his soul that she would ever hurt him willingly.

She is not Caro. She is not – his past. She is in his kitchen, wearing one of his t-shirts, she has cooked dinner and he knows that she is probably wearing his socks. He is happy – and desperately in love with her.

“So –“ She says, breaking his train of thoughts, “what do we do?”

“Five people are dead, sweetheart – and they were all working on whatever you are working on. That’s what I’m  truly concerned about.” He says.

 _You. I am worried about you._ He doesn’t say the words aloud, but she has not trouble reading them in his eyes.

“William – I am _not_ James Bond,” She says, “I analyse data, I translate electronic surveillance. It’s the least glamorous and dangerous thing in the world, I promise.”

She furrows her brows and adds, “Sweetheart? Really?”

“Shut up –“ He mumbles. He knows he is smiling and for a moment that feeling, deep in his gut, fades. He doesn’t ask her what the other victims did. He knows he will, later, but for a moment he lets it slide.

She cocks an eyebrow suggestively and he laughs, he can’t help it. She is not trying to seduce him, she is just – _Victoria_ : headstrong, honest, beautiful, _his._  

“Your uncle is an arse, you know that, right?” He says after a moment.

“He is the nice one in my family, you should meet my father’s brother –“ She replies with a shrug of her shoulders. She nibbles at her lower lip and says, “I truly did not want to hide things from you.” She hesitates before saying, “I am not –“

She doesn’t say Caro’s name, she has seen the few pictures of her he still has in his flat, she has commented on Augustus, telling him how much he resembled him, but she doesn’t say his wife’s name.

“No – you are not.” He says.

She moves, his kitchenette is small, she gets up from her chair, still holding his hand and it takes her just a couple of steps to be in front of him.

And it’s easy – it’s the two of them: they laugh, they tease each other, even while kissing and he is helping her out of her pajamas bottoms  one size larger with penguins on it  and her pants. She is the sexiest woman he has ever met.

He kisses her and she tastes like coffee and fear – and he supposes he must not taste differently. He is afraid. He is terrified.

She straddles him, her hands in his hair, his hands on her waist, under the t-shirt, brushing her naked, warm skin with his fingers, just like he knows she likes it.

He breaks the kiss to help her out of her – his, technically – t-shirt. He is still wearing far too many clothes for his liking, he wants to feel her skin against his.

He wants her.

 

* * *

 

 

William’s tie slips on the floor, she might have done some damage to it while unfastening it, it takes a little maneuvering on their part and the friction it causes is delicious, but they manage to free him of his jacket which ends up crumpled at their feet.

William is fire -  he is kissing her as if he wants to swallow her up, keep her safe, away from everything and everyone.

She is rocking against him, slowly, part teasing, part seeking friction – and he slows her pace, stilling her hips with his hands.

His kisses are almost bruising and she responds in kind. It’s love – and William might be absolutely pants at saying those three words aloud, but she knows, she feels it in every look, every gesture, in the way he is claiming her, with his lips, his tongue, with his hands on her hips, with how their  hips are rocking together.

The buttons of his shirt fly all around them, she couldn’t care less – and neither does William, apparently. He is still wearing too many clothes, and she is naked on his lap, things need to change.

 Her hair is loose on her shoulders, William has undone her ponytail and she likes how one of his hands trail up, carding his fingers through her hair and for a moment her world zeroes on his lips on hers, the way their tongues are seeking each other’s, how she can feel his skin against hers, and God, it’s – everything: it’s pleasure, and love, and _home_ – and she suspects that William is not the only one who wants to swallow up her whole, keeping her away from everything and everyone. She wants exactly the same.

They chuckle, her lips against his jaw, his against her temple when they try to get him out of that shirt. He is afraid of what she has told him, she is terrified of ever losing him and it shows in the urgency of their movements.

He wants control, she feels it in the way he is angling her face and deepen the kiss. She wants – _him_ , she gives in. It’s William – he is the only person she has ever met who didn’t have an ulterior motive with her. She trusts him with every fiber of his being.

 She needs to feel him, so that she will never again feel as terrified as she felt that morning when she recognized the victim and understood just how big of a mess she really was in and later, at Vauxhall Cross, when she has been made aware of what _exactly_ is at stake. 

  They fumble a bit once his shirt is finally off, possibly irremediably destroyed, and their fingers brush against each other’s when they both reach for the zipper of his trousers and move, together.

They lock gazes: the green of William’s eyes is darker, she hears the soft noises he is making,  she cannot stop looking at him –  she likes, no – she _loves_ when he lets go of his self-doubts and just shows that side of him. 

She needs to be closer to him, though – she loops an arm around his neck and moves and William’s hands slid down, to cup her buttocks, pushing her even closer to him.

It’s slow at first, she wants to feel him inside of her, instead, he is just allowing her to rock her hips, rubbing against him. It’s maddening, really. It’s fire, burning  between her legs and in his eyes and the only sounds she can hear it’s their breaths mingling.

“William,” She whispers between kisses. There is more urgency in her movements, now and he knows, because he is smiling even as he guides her movement and God, she _knows_ that smile, she loves feeling it against her skin.

It’s a slow build pressure, it’s his smile, how he doesn’t seem to be in a rush even if their kisses have become sloppier, and she can feel under her palm how fast his heart is beating. It’s the way he presses his forehead against hers and she can feel his breath against her skin.

It’s his hand slipping between them, brushing her core and how she can finally, finally move, reach between them, touch him, shifting just so that she can lower herself onto him, while he is still touching her with one hand and the other is splayed on her back.

He is not playing anymore and neither is she, he is not teasing her, he is just fire and love (did she truly think she had been in love before meeting him?) and his hand in her hair as their kisses become sloppier and sloppier and their hips are snapping, moving together, and she can’t stop touching his face, she can’t stop tasting his skin and lips.

   “I’ve got you…” He pants, one hand is in her hair, the other still between them, rubbing her through the orgasm ripping through her.

He is not far behind, she can feel it, hear it in the way he’s saying her name, over and over, panting it against her lips.

She is absolutely rubbish at sex talk, but William doesn’t seem to mind, he burrows his face against her neck and she holds onto him, their movements are frantic and she lets out a moan when he stills and she loves that moment: their bodies joined, their smells mingling, both their hearts still frantic.

“I didn’t exactly welcome you home…” She says and she can’t honestly say how long it’s passed. 

William chuckles and kisses her temple, somehow they have moved – she is still sitting on his lap, his arms are wrapped around her shoulders.

“Oh, that was _nice,_ I’m definitely not complaining,” William says.

She hides her face against the crook of his neck and smiles.  

“Victoria,” He says after a moment, “five people are dead – they were all working on the same program – your uncle wants us to treat this as a serial killer case, why?”

“I don’t know – I am not a SIS, William,” She says. It is – not exactly true, but duty is duty and it’s too hard ingrained in her to steer away from it.

She doesn’t know if William believes her, part of her doesn’t want him to  – she hates not being completely forthcoming with him, but she can’t help thinking about Mr. Taylor’s wife and son, killed – to hurt him, evidently. She knows William can take care of himself, he is not a civilian, but she is not about to take any risks.

_Remember who you are, Victoria._

 

It’s what her uncle told her when he explained the gravity of the situation. William is worried, she can tell, and she is worried too: there is a vice around her heart that has been taking her breath away ever since she saw Ms. Connelly’s body that morning.

“We should move –“ She mumbles.

“Yes, we really should,” William replies, but he is holding her even tighter at him.

They will be cold later and they are sticky – but neither of them moves for a long time.

It’s – as close to perfection as it can get.   

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up with a start in the middle of the night, his heart hammering against his ribcage, adrenaline, and fear pumping through his veins. He blinks in the darkness, disoriented for a moment.  

He moves silently, he doesn’t want to wake Victoria up – and he irrationally thinks, for a moment, that if he stays in that bed she might sense – see what he has seen in his dream.

He has long accepted the nightmares as part of his life – they always hurt, they always scare him, but entering his old flat and see Caro and Augustus in the sitting room is as much part of his life as everything else.

The dream he has had is different – he was with Caro in his dream, not the woman she had been toward the end, but the girl he met at a party so many years ago: young, and flamboyant and full of life, whose demons are still carefully hidden and dormant. She covers his hand with hers when he tries to open the door of his flat, _their_ old flat, he sees the blood on the back of her hand, but it doesn’t stop him.

“Don’t!” She says and she is again the woman who tried to slash her wrists at a dinner party, he can actually see the gashes reopen as she tries not to make him open that door.

“Please, don’t!” She pleads.

He opens the door anyway – and that’s where he sees and he wants to move, to step back, to run away but he can’t. He sees Augustus, first, his beloved boy, his eyes open and unseeing, his thin frame in a pool of blood, his throat slashed.

He sees Victoria, then, blood blooming on her white shirt, trailing down from her hands and he doesn’t want to move or see –  but he does anyway and it’s like being ripped apart. It’s the fear and grief exploding in his lungs and heart that finally wake him up.

He can still see her in the dark, even if he knows that Victoria is sleeping right next to him and she is alive, she is fine, she is – safe.

She doesn’t hear him leave the bedroom, he is hugging his arms, shivering with something that has nothing to do with the cold. He can’t even smile when he sees the mess in the kitchenette, his shirt, tie and jacket rumpled on the floor, the dishes in the sink, the pictures on the table.

He drinks some water, resisting – just barely – the temptation to drink something stronger. He needs to be functional, he needs to bloody keep it together on the job. He doesn’t want to make any noise, Victoria would wake up and she would _worry._

He walks barefoot in the sitting room and opens up the window. He takes deep breaths.

It is just a dream – it is not the first nightmare he has ever had and he is pretty sure it won’t be the last.

He drinks his water and lets the cool air helping him breathe: in and out, in and out.

He spots the black car parked in front of his flat right away. He can see two men inside. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or scared, he settles on anger.

“Hey…” Victoria is whispering behind him. He didn’t hear her approaching, but he is not surprised.  

He closes his eyes. He truly didn’t want to wake her up. He didn’t want her to see – to understand (because she will. It will take her but a look to see that he is _terrified_ because of a bloody nightmare.) what he is feeling, what he has seen and felt.

He turns, he smiles, she walks toward him, wearing just his t-shirt, her hair sticking all over the place and he doesn’t think he has ever loved anyone as much as he loves her. It’s terrifying – it’s the best thing that ever happened to him.

“I – “ He trails, but he honestly doesn’t know how to finish his sentence.

She walks toward him and it’s natural to envelop her in his arms, it calms the beating of his heart, it centers him.

If she notices the black car parked outside she doesn’t mention it. She places a soft kiss he can feel even through his shirt, right above his heart.

“It’s so quiet –“ She says.

It truly isn’t – but he can’t tell her.

“Let’s go back to bed, sorry I woke you up.” He says instead.

She tilts her head and looks at him and he can see she is worried, but she lets is slide – for which he is extremely grateful.

“Yeah, let’s go.” She says. She doesn’t ask if everything is okay. It isn’t, not at the moment, and they both know that.

The ball of dread in the pit of his stomach is – taking his breath away. He is not a superstitious man, he has never been – but, and that is something he has never told _anyone_ , not even Emma, the last time he has felt something remotely similar, it was in the split second it took him to turn on the light in his old flat, right before he saw Augustus and Caro – that is probably what’s scaring him the most.

Victoria takes his hand, she leads him back to their bed, she kisses his forehead, she doesn’t speak, she doesn’t need to. They rarely, truly do when it matters.

He watches her sleep, long after he has given up even trying to.

She is warm, real, in his arms. She is – alive. He has to repeat himself that it was just a dream.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t plan on it, Victoria is out with Emma, which is mind-boggling in and on itself: it’s his past and present colliding and becoming something new and beautiful. He stops in front of the window, the black car is following him – and he is tempted to just go to them, knock on one of the windows and have a chat, but he doesn’t.

He gets into the store and when he sees the item, the ring, he can almost see it on Victoria’s ring finger: it’s not flashy, because she doesn’t wear jewels, except for a silver bracelet which, he has discovered, belonged to her father, but the diamond nested at the centre of the intricate design sparks quietly and William buys it.

They  have not talked about the future, their living arrangements are still up in the air -  they just live their lives _together_. And that is the point, isn’t it? He knows there will never be anyone else for him – there can’t be.

He wants to spend the rest of his life with Victoria and he is an old fashioned buggerer: he is not particularly fond of the idea of asking for Victoria’s hand to her stepfather and he knows she will kick his arse if he tries, but getting down on one knee and propose to her? He can do that. He _wants_ to do that.

He just needs to find the right time.

Time, it turns out, is not on their side.

 

* * *

 

 

It happens in slow motion. That is how he will remember it, later, even if he knows that in reality, it all happens in a matter of seconds.

He will remember the blood, he will remember – and it will be more a feeling than an actual memory – how he can’t hear a single noise, after everything fades and it’s the most intense and terrifying thing he has felt in his life. Even worse than getting into his flat and seeing his son’s and wife’s corpses.

  It starts like a routine follow-up questioning on the fifth crime scene. The fact that the perpetrator is not a serial killer, but someone who is systematically targeting civil servants doesn’t change much: they still need to stop him. 

It is a beautiful day, they can actually see the sun for once, she tells him in the car about her gap year and how she got a sunburn for the first time in her life while in Italy.

She smiles when he teases her and he then tells her about his own gap year and she chuckles when he tells her about drinking water with ice in it, while in Egypt, and what a spectacularly bad idea it had been.

They share their usual enormous cup of coffee, passing it back and forth between them,  they share smiles in the car, he is driving for once, she is wearing sunglasses and she is checking their notes.  

He sees the black car tailing them in the rearview mirror; he is getting used to it, he appreciates that as much as an arse Victoria’s uncle is, he is at least trying to protect her, much as Victoria is doing her best to ignore the car (and the two men in) at all times.

It happens quickly in reality – but he feels it all unfolds in slow-motion.

The neighbors still don’t know anything, still, don’t remember a thing about the night Ms. Connelly was killed or are pretending not to. It’s maddening, it truly is, but it’s nothing they haven’t heard before. They can’t arrest people for being pricks with any civic sense of duty, after all.

The basement is supposed to be empty and locked, but they clearly hear noises coming from below, they’re in the flat right above it, talking to an elderly man; William looks at Victoria, noticing the way she has tensed.

He is the one calling for back up, but she is the one rushing down the hallway.  

The basement has been checked and locked, it still was when they arrived, he remembers.

It might be nothing, he tries and reasons, but the way Victoria, who is usually rational and methodical on the job, has rushed there crushes that hope. Ms. Connelly’s flat has been combed by them and it had been already trashed when they first got there. Whatever the perpetrator was looking for (if he was looking for something) wasn’t in the woman’s flat.  The basement has only been searched back when they were all on the crime scene, it had been a cursory check, just to make sure no one was down there.

 That is the first day, after a week, that there has not been a swarm of coppers and reporters outside and inside the building.

William knows – feels that it can’t be a coincidence.

He rushes after Victoria, but it feels like being stuck in a bloody nightmare, he can’t move quickly enough; his blood turns to ice in his veins when he hears the scream.

It’s Victoria.

It happens in slow motion: he gets into the basement, trying to adjust his eyes to the intermittent lights in it. It’s part basement and part boiler room and he reaches for the taser he is supposed to carry but that it isn’t _there._ He walks, thinking that perhaps Victoria saw a rat and it startled her, she is scared of rats after all – he knows that because they are partners and lovers and they know those things about each other, it’s how it is supposed to be, isn’t it? And where in the bloody hell is back up and the two blokes in the black car, anyway?

He sees them – and it’s like switching on the light in his old flat and having his heart ripped out of his chest seeing his son and wife dead. He stops, freezes actually.

The man is tall, Caucasian, totally nondescript – he wouldn’t be able to identify him out of a lineup which, he supposes, it must be sort of essential for him. A strong arm is keeping Victoria in a stronghold against him, he has a knife pointed at her chest.

Not a gun. Guns make a lot of noise, guns attract all sorts of attention and between shells, gunpowder and ballistic they can help identify the perpetrator. Victoria and him have talked about the choice of weapon, discussing the reasons for it and his brain is stuttering with all that nonsense because a man is keeping Victoria in a stronghold and it takes a moment for his training to catch up.

He will never, ever forgive himself for that moment.

“Don’t fucking move!” The man says. He has no discernible accent, and William knows, without a doubt, that he is _not_ bluffing. There is also no way out: the windows have bars on them and he knows that there is only one door. He is pretty sure that it won’t stop that man. Not now. Unlike him, the man has nothing to lose.

He raises his hands up and says, “I won’t.”      

He has worked on hostage situations, but it has never been his partner, it has never been someone he loves more than life itself. He sees why there are rules, he sees why partners are not supposed to fall in love with each other: duty is supposed to come first, he would do _anything_ to avoid that man using the knife on Victoria.

Victoria is calm, the man must have taken her by surprise, hence her scream, William _knows_ she can take care of herself, she might knock that man out flat in a second if she wanted, she has the training to do so,  but she is keeping still, she doesn’t look perturbed in the least and he doesn’t understand why.

He breathes and talks in autopilot: decades on the job allowing him to sound more confident and calm than he actually is. The tip of the knife is pressed tight over Victoria’s breastbone, he can see red blooming on her shirt and he tries to focus the man’s attention on him. He is negotiating, he is buying time – he is doing what he is paid to do, but it has never been more personal to him. As long as the man is talking to him, as long as he can keep him engaged he won’t kill Victoria. 

He doesn’t ask the man what he wants, he doesn’t _care_ , he only needs him to put that bloody knife down and let Victoria go. The man must surely know that there is no way he can get out of that basement a free man, they both know that. The man in front of him is not a junkie, or a desperate man having a breakdown and doing something stupid.

The man in front of him has killed five people: how he can be so positive about it, he has no idea, but he fits the profile, he has overpowered three civil servants already – and Victoria is not bloody moving! The man in front of him is not an amateur, so he chooses his words carefully and he doesn’t even need to tell him that killing a sergeant from Scotland Yard will only make things worse for him; the man knows and doesn’t care.

If that was a movie and he was an American cop he would have already shot the tosser in the head. He is not in a movie, he doesn’t carry a gun, he doesn’t even remember when the last time he shot a gun was. And it is a moot point anyway, it is really happening, even if he wishes to God it weren’t.

 He knows it must not take more than a few seconds, actually, but he sees it happen in slow motion: the shots fired from seemingly thin air, coming from behind him, and the man being quicker than the men, quicker than the bullets even, he sees it so clearly that he wants to turn and shout at whoever is shooting to stop, he wants to warn Victoria but he can’t do a single thing. He doesn’t have the time because it all happens, in reality, in the span of a heartbeat.

  For a moment blood is the only thing he can see, after. Both Victoria and the man fall to the pavement and he rushes to her, moving on numb legs, he can’t hear a single noise, he can’t see anything that is not Victoria.

There is so much blood and it is so bright, almost unnaturally so, he falls to his knees and Victoria’s white shirt is drenched in blood (is it arterial blood? A distant part of him wonders and he shuts it up violently) and there is a knife protruding from her chest and he can’t breathe for a moment.

 There is blood trailing down from the sides of Victoria’s mouth – and she is looking at him and there are tears in her eyes as he gently cradles her in his arms, and despite the feeling of having been just ripped out from his own body he is mindful of her injury, he shouts to call an ambulance, and doesn’t touch the blade and her torso because he knows that the knife is the only thing keeping her alive, it’s working as a cork in a bottle, he knows that she’ll bleed out if the blade moves.

She seeks his hand with hers and he can’t feel a single thing for a moment – it only lasts a moment, and then it all slams into him: he hears the people in the room, the man they have shot (hurt, not killed) being kept down, the noises in that room being too loud,  and Victoria is on the pavement, in his arms, and it can’t be happening.

“You are all right.” He hears himself saying, and he knows that it’s stupid, he also knows that he has repeated those words since he has taken Victoria in his arms.

She is trying to speak but she can’t seem to form words, and he shushes her, trailing his fingers through her hair when she coughs up blood.

He can’t lose her – he feels like his heart is being ripped away from his chest and there is blood on her face and he realises he put it there, he can feel the warmth of Victoria’s blood on his hands and it tears some of the numbness away.

“You are going to be fine –“ He says. He can’t say anything else, it can’t end in any different way. She has to be fine. She has to survive. 

She doesn’t smile, she can hardly _breathe_ and her eyes are closing.

“No, no, no!” He says, pleads, really,  “stay with me…”

She nods and he idly notices that there is too much light now and people, a lot of people. He hasn’t heard them getting in, he doesn’t give a toss about them, his world has zeroed on the woman in his arms and she is trying, really trying to keep her eyes open for him, her skin is almost gray and William can’t do a thing to stop what’s happening.

“Stay with me,” He says against her too cold forehead, “please, stay with me…”

 The paramedics are there and he blinks owlishly at them when they talk to him, he genuinely doesn’t understand what they are saying for a moment, but then Victoria’s hand goes limp in his and it’s like a jolt of electricity through his system.

He can only watch as the paramedics start working, he knows exactly how much blood a person can lose before dying – and there is just too much on that pavement, Victoria is closing her eyes and he thinks he will lose his mind if she does.

Victoria closes her eyes.

 

* * *

 

 He hasn’t lost his mind. He distinctly remembers the rush to the A&E, the paramedics asking him whether he was wounded and how their words didn’t make any sense to him until they pointed at the blood on his shirt and hands.

He doesn’t remember, if he is honest, how did he get into the ambulance, he suspects he might have pulled rank or threatened to kill someone, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t really care.

The waiting room is too warm, his hands itch and he knows – he _knows_ why is that. He still has Victoria’s blood on his hands, on his clothes, and he has not moved since he has been shoved into that room. 

He doesn’t know how long he has been there, in that room, he doesn’t want to know – as long as no doctor gets in the waiting room wearing a politely sympathetic look on their face he can breathe, he can function.

When the door opens he jerks his head up, his heart jumping in his throat and the relief he feels when he sees that it’s not a doctor or a nurse, but Emma is staggering, he actually cannot move a muscle.

Emma is wearing scrubs under her coat, she must have been informed of what happened while she was in the morgue, he can smell (his senses, after the numbness in the basement, are too honed, he feels nauseous, he is shaking) the chemical soap she uses. Emma doesn’t talk, she doesn’t say a single word. She helps him sit, as if he was an old man, guiding him and he blinks because he doesn’t even remember getting up from his chair.

“William –“ She says.

He is still looking at the wall, the wall is white and there are posters, stuff about health and the dangers of smoking and having unprotected sex and who to call in case of abuse and he jerks away from her when she touches him.

“Look at me!” She says.

He obliges, he doesn’t particularly want to, but Emma sounds scared, and he can’t help it.

“Talk to me.” She says.

He hears what she is not telling him: don’t stare at the bloody wall, don’t go to pieces now.

 He honestly has no idea about what to say. When they arrived at the A&E there was a team already waiting for them. Should he tell Emma that the ambulance ride seemed to go on for hours and he was terrified that she would flat line? That she would die before even reaching the hospital?

“I need to wash my hands.” He says, instead.

He gets up from his chair and he has no idea where the bathroom is and the words are out of his mouth, pried from his gut while he looks at his hands and wonders how one person can lose so much blood and still be alive.

“I can’t lose her, Emma. I can’t –“ He storms out of the waiting room, and his mind has not totally splintered because he does find a bathroom, it’s small and smells of bleach and his eyes are stinging and he needs to blink repeatedly.

The water is punishingly hot and red, there is so much red – and it’s Victoria’s blood, and it’s not supposed to be on his hands, they are supposed to be drinking their coffee and ignore the stares of their colleagues and their evening was supposed to be glamorous, as Victoria had announced that morning: laundry and then ridding his fridge of some monstrosity that has been there for a very long time.  

“You don’t need to do that,” He said. They were in the bathroom when that conversation took place, she had just pinned her hair up, she had rolled her eyes and said, “Some of the stuff in your fridge has elected its own parliament, you know?”

“I mean –“ William had trailed.

“Pinot grigio, after, and I’ll even let you pick the movie. Deal?” She replied, smiling brightly.

The water is pink, now – and the blood just won’t come off, he has it under his nails and he can’t look at himself in the mirror, he has to focus on breathing.

“William,” It’s Emma’s voice behind the closed door.

“I’m fine.” He says.

She ignores his words and opens the door anyway and he doesn’t turn to look at her, she hands him a small bottle of soap, the one she uses in the morgue and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“She will make it through.” She says.

He wants to believe her, he desperately needs to believe her words. But she wasn’t there. She has not looked at Victoria’s face, she hasn’t seen her lose consciousness.

He has never been more scared in his life.

 

* * *

 

 

The doctors at the A&E have performed a minor miracle, William has always prided himself as an agnostic, but what they have done – keeping her alive, is nothing short of a miracle. The surgeon has talked about damage to the aorta, severe blood loss and yes, she should have died in that basement, but she is still alive. William doesn’t truly believe in God, but he is more than ready to get on his knees and pray until he is completely hoarse if that means she survives.

Doctors are arseholes. In William’s experience, they truly don’t get or care about the effect their words have on people.

Victoria was supposed to die on the spot. That’s what the surgeon said, the fact that she has moved her torso or God knows what else, has made the difference – just half an inch has made the difference.  

The doctor talks about statistics and survival percentage and his words bounce off of him. Emma is there, her brain is still working and she is the one asking questions, making sure the doctor doesn’t hide behind medical lingo.

He has medical power of attorney, he has signed about a hundred pages of paperwork, months before and Victoria has done the same. At the time, before they were lovers, it had been just something that had looked practical and _remote_. It’s something close partners do sometimes, it reminds them that the work they do can be dangerous and sometimes a quick decision can make the difference between living or dying.

He signs the paperwork for Victoria’s surgery and if the doctor notices that his hand is shaking he doesn’t mention or care.

“You need to hydrate, you are in shock,” Emma says.

Is he? He looks at his shaking hands, he knows his teeth are chattering – yes, he supposes he is in shock and he knows that when it wears off he might lose his mind, for real – but Emma needs to do something.

“Coffee.” He says.

“Nope. I’m bringing you some water – I’ll be right back.” She says.  

He closes his eyes when she leaves the room. His body might be in shock – it is, Emma is right – but his mind is spinning, it’s working just _fine_. He can’t stop being a copper, a detective, he can’t stop putting pieces together – it’s who he is and he hates himself for that.

Victoria insisted on going back and interrogating Ms. Connelly’s neighbors again, he remembers that. He has indulged her because – well, she does the same with him when he wants to check things out. She let him drive, checking on her notes over and over, both things are unusual – she has a scarily accurate memory and she _never_ lets him drive on the job.

British policemen don’t carry firearms, there are tasers and batons, of course,  but they are trained for that kind of situation. Victoria _was_ – is, dammit, is! - is highly trained, he has seen her disarm suspects twice her size.

But he has also seen her playing the dumb bimbo in order to obtain information, he has seen her playing the good cop to his bad cop and vice-versa during interrogations, she always does what it needs to be done. Without exceptions.

No. That can’t be –

“Christ…” He says and – his voice sounds so wrong to his own ears that he shuts up immediately and squelches the half-formed thoughts in his mind because he cannot accept them.

When the door opens he grips the armrests of his chair, even if he rationally knows that it must be Emma. Victoria is in surgery, the doctor has clearly told him how long it will take and – other _things_ he resolutely refuses to contemplate.

 It is Emma and his grip on the armrests lessen. He accepts the water and drinks from it. He isn’t sure the water will stay down, but it is better than – thinking about what the doctor told him or how is mind is putting together the pieces of what happened.

They don’t talk – Emma knows better than trying to make small talk to distract him. There is a digital clock on the wall and he is trying to avoid looking at that.  

“Do you want me to call her mother?” She asks, and he truly hates the tone of her voice.

He hates what she is saying.

“No,” He says, and it hurts speaking, he doesn’t want to speak, he wants to – swap places with Victoria. He would gladly, without a second thought, take her place in the operation theater.

“I’m her –“ Partner? Boyfriend? The tosser who could not get in time in that basement and has had a ring hidden in his sock’s drawer for days?

He looks at Emma, “I’ve got to do that myself.”

He doesn’t really need to, the door opens and William recognizes the woman between the two men, Victoria’s uncle, and John Conroy, right away: it’s Victoria’s mother.

 

* * *

 

 

Victoria’s mother is distraught, she is hanging onto John Conroy like some character from a bad nineteenth-century melodrama. Her first husband was a secret service operative killed in the line of duty, her brother fucking runs secret services as far as William knows and she looks like a delicate flower about to pass out.

“What happened to my Drina?” The woman cries, and William is glad to have something to focus on, even if it’s how much he understands why Victoria does her utmost to avoid her own mother.  

He is unfair in his judgment of the woman, and he truly can’t bring himself to care.

“What happened to my daughter?” Victoria’s mother asks again.  

He looks at Victoria’s uncle. That is a very good question for which he, too, would like an answer.

Oh, he knows what happened – he was there, what he doesn’t understand is _why_.

The woman blanches looking at him. “Oh my God!” she cries, “is that – is that my daughter’s blood?”

And just like that – he can’t feel anger or resentment toward that woman. He knows what she is going through, he has lived it – and he doesn’t wish that soul ripping grief on anyone.

“What happened?” The woman is repeating, her voice taking a more desperate edge, “What did you do to my baby girl?”

He ignores her words, not even flinching when he remembers that Caro said something similar when Emily died, and helps her sit down on a chair. He is acutely aware of the fact that both Victoria’s uncle and Conroy are looking at him – and almost as an afterthought, he realises that he has washed out blood from his hands, but his shirt is still drenched with it.

“You were supposed to keep her safe, she said that you kept her safe!” Victoria’s mother is saying, crying really, and William is holding the woman’s hands because what else is he supposed to do?

She is right. He is Victoria’s partner and he has failed her, spectacularly so.

“I think that’s enough Mary Louise!” Victoria’s uncle says, his voice is cold and books no argument whatsoever.

Victoria’s mother _snaps_ her mouth shut and jerks her hands away from his.

“I believe,” Victoria’s uncle says, “that you have my niece’s exclusive medical power of attorney, is that correct?”

  _Exclusive_? Is that even possible?

 William nods and thinks that if the man wants to pick a fight about that he might kill him, but the man seems to read right through him and says, “Would you mind coming with me so that we can be informed of the current prognosis?”

He doesn’t have Victoria’s blue eyes, but the look in them, the way he tilts an eyebrow is uncannily similar to hers. He is far a better liar than Victoria, though.

He exchanges a glance with Emma who nods. She will tell him if something happens – and he doesn’t truly want to exit the room, but Victoria’s uncle says, “It won’t be a moment, _William._ ”

He is not a violent person. He has never been, but he has never had his shirt drenched with Victoria’s blood either, so there is always a first time, they have taken just a few steps outside the waiting room when he shoves the man against the wall.

The man is taller than him, and he looks absolutely nonplussed at his outburst, which shatters completely what is left of the numbness he has been feeling.

“You used her as bait!” He says. 

He hopes that he is wrong, that Victoria was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the man looks genuinely impressed by his words and he doesn’t deny them either.

 The man in that basement was keeping Victoria in a stronghold and William wants that pompous prick to have a taste of what his niece has been through and – he suspects Victoria’s uncle could knock him out if he wanted, but he doesn’t.

“She was choking up blood, you know? You used her as bait and she is dying!” William hisses.

It’s true. All true. Victoria coughed up blood – her uncle has used her as bait to catch whoever was killing MI6 operatives and she might _die_.

He steps back and the man stares at him. He loves Victoria – the realization of what has happened is sinking in, but William can’t feel any sympathy for him.

“You used our relationship – to get your man, are you satisfied?” He asks.

“She…volunteered,” Victoria’s uncle says after a moment of silence, and there is nothing in the man of the arsehole he has met once. He looks terrified.

“Oh, that makes it all better then, doesn’t it?” He says. He is not surprised in the least that Victoria volunteered to play bait. He will be pissed, and angry when Victoria is better when there isn’t a tear in her aorta and she isn’t coughing up blood. For now, he just needs her to survive. He just – can’t lose her. 

“No,” The man says, “it doesn’t make it better. I did not – and I’m not satisfied, William. Far from it!“

“Did you order her not to react? Not to knock that bastard out cold?” William asks.

The man nods.  

“She told me you are the nice one in the family, you know? She was clearly wrong!” William says.

He shakes his head and wants to get as far away as possible from that man, but Victoria’s uncle stops him when he says, “I love my niece more than anything, William –that was not what was supposed to happen!”

“We have something in common, then,” William says.

Victoria’s uncle closes his eyes for a moment, “I’ve had some clothes brought for you – and by the way, congratulations for catching your serial killer!”

His knuckles don’t even hurt too much when William punches the man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song William and Victoria dances to, although not directly mentioned is Brian McKnight's "Back at One"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is still; like he had feared she would be, small and so pale. He ignores the noises of the machines, he ignores the IVs and even the breathing tube. He knows he can’t stay long, but he needs to be close to her, even if for a few moments.
> 
> Who in the bloody hell is he trying to fool? He wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delaying in posting the last chapter. Hope you guys will like it. Thank you to all the people who left kudos and feedback - it's heartwarming and truly appreciated:)  
> That's it, folks - it was supposed to be a short thing, it ended up being 60 pages long :)

Time passes. The door doesn’t open and William paces the room. Victoria’s relatives stay there and they all do their best to ignore each other. He signs papers, pre-made reports of the events that took place in that blasted basement and he doesn’t care.

He drinks water, he runs his hands through his hair, he dozes on a chair and his nightmares are so terrifying that even Victoria’s mother looks at him with pity when he wakes up.

“I want to marry her.” He says, six hours into the waiting.

He says it aloud, he doesn’t give a toss about her relatives’ answers  or eventual objections, he is not asking for their permission. If Victoria will have him (if she survives, a voice in his mind supplies, if she is crazy enough to want him) he will be honored to spend the rest of his life with her. Only a fool would not want to spend his life with Victoria.

“Do you?” John Conroy asks.

He feels Emma tense next to him, he places a hand on her arm and says, “That is not a debate.”

Incredibly enough Victoria’s mother is smiling through her tears.

“My daughter loves you, Mr. Melbourne,” She worries her lip and adds, “is she happy?”

He smiles, despite himself, despite still feeling Victoria’s blood on him, despite the fact that his senses are on hyper alert. He thinks about Victoria in his bed, stealing his pillows and quietly chuckling against his skin while they watch telly and she rolls her eyes at procedural dramas.

 He sees Victoria in her kitchen, baking a cake for his birthday and sipping red wine, wearing her ratty pajamas (which he finds incredibly sexy), one of his shirts and slaughtering  Coldplay’s ‘Yellow’ (she can play piano – but she is absolutely pants at singing) while he reads the paper.

 He thinks about long days in the office, how his office has become _theirs_ , for all intents and purposes, he thinks about Victoria knocking at his door at three in the morning and bravely telling him that she loves him.

 He can only see her smiles, he remembers how she closed both their mobile phones in a drawer, the week end after they first made love, and resolutely said that since that was their only free week end in common Scotland Yard could go and bugger itself and, “Would you kiss me already?

“I think – “ He says after a moment, but it feels longer, it’s making his heart heavy in his chest, “I think she is.”

Victoria’s mother raises from her chair and sits next to him, if she sees the way her husband is looking at her she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, he is not sure which, she takes his hand in hers. She doesn’t talk and neither does he.

Time passes, he realises that it’s the longest Victoria and him have been apart since they have become lovers.

“My daughter is strong,” Victoria’s mother says. She is not crying, her voice reminds him of Victoria’s: it’s bright and clear,  “she is the strongest person I know.”

William nods. She is. She is strong, brave, stupid and exceptional and if there is a God, he can’t lose her.

“You will have to help me to convince her to have the wedding at Kensington.” Victoria’s mother says.

She is tethering on the edge and so is he. He has buried his children, he has held his daughter while she took her last breath – he knows, understands how scared she is. How terrified. She loves Victoria – more than anything.

“You overestimate my influence on her,” He says.

There are tear tracks on her face, but she smiles, smelling of Dior’s ‘Opium’ and vanilla, dressed impeccably, and says, “I really don’t think so,”

“I haven’t actually proposed to her, yet,” He says.

Victoria’s mother smiles, “Darling,” She says, “There will be time –“

He desperately wants to believe her.

 

* * *

 

Nine hours and twelve minutes. William is aware of each second. He doesn’t leave the waiting room, he is absurdly grateful to Victoria’s uncle because he is the one who deals with bureaucracy.

He meets Victoria’s uncle from her father’s side: the infamous Kents. The man, chief Kent, has a scar on his cheek, he is not sure whether he actually even _knows_ Victoria or cares about her, but the man thanks him and he feels like he has ended up in some sort of parallel universe where an obscure government figure repels him less than one of his direct bosses.

Victoria is right, he realises when her uncle leaves, her maternal uncle _is_ actually the nice one in her family.

 

* * *

 

When the door opens they all move as one, he has had a kip on the chair; he has dreamed about Victoria again, but it was a nice dream, for a change: they were at his parent’s house, at Brocket Hall, he hasn’t been there for decades, but the garden and the rooks in the trees are unmistakable, they were dancing in his dream and he hopes he will have to ask Frederick, his brother, for the keys of that old house, he wants Victoria to see it.

The doctor looks exhausted, but he is instantly relieved when he spots the lack of tells on his face – he has had to tell about enough deaths in his life to immediately spot them on other people’s faces. Yes, the doctor is tired, but he is also – content. Satisfied.

“Mr. Melbourne?” The doctor calls.

He can’t feel his legs and he is absurdly grateful that Emma is there, with him.

“The surgery was successful,” The doctor says, “we had to restart her heart twice, but sergeant Kent is a remarkably strong woman.”

  Victoria’s mother hugs him – and part of him knows that there will be hell to pay down the road with John Conroy – and Victoria’s uncle closes his eyes in relief for a moment.

“Barring complications for the next twenty four hours, there are good chances she will recover,” The doctor hesitates, he must have smelt the power in the room, or maybe he is not a complete arsehole, “Her vitals are – good. She is young, in perfect health – I am cautiously optimistic.”

The doctor hesitates again for a moment before saying, “She is in intensive care right now – why don’t you all get some rest? There is nothing you can do here.”

He can wait. He is not going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

“Go home, have a wash, honestly, William you are ripe!” Emma says.

 He hasn’t left the hospital. He honestly has no idea how long it has been – he has sent Emma home, but she has come back, he has told John Conroy to bugger off sometime during the first twelve hours after Victoria’s surgery. He is pretty sure that Victoria’s uncle masked his guffaw behind a polite fit of cough.

Victoria’s mother, Mary Louise has seen her; about twelve hours after her surgery visitors are allowed into intensive care: only one at the time and for a few minutes.

 Mary Louise was distraught when she came back, but hopeful.

“She is breathing,” She said, “her heart is beating. My Victoria is a fighter!”

She is. He is glad Victoria’s mother is finally realizing that. He knows Victoria will probably be mad because he doesn’t think her mother is a complete waste of air, but – she hasn’t left the hospital, she has been there, with him, telling him stories about Victoria’s childhood and her plans for their wedding – and Victoria will have to learn to live with it.

“Will, go home, have a shower – I swear she’s going to wake up and tell you herself!” Emma says.

Victoria has not woken up yet. She is in a coma. Her body has gone through a terrible stress and, apparently, the coma is not bad, it’s giving her body the time to heal. She got knifed to the chest, she is lucky to be alive.

Even Victoria’s uncle, who has left the hospital only for brief intervals, seems supportive. The truth is that he is terrified at the idea of leaving the hospital. He knows his presence is useless; he never left his daughter’s side after she was born – and yet she died. She exhaled her last breath while in his arms.

“Promise me you will call me, should –“ He trails.

“I swear.” Emma says.

“You will have a car waiting for you –“ Victoria’s uncle says.

He obliges them, he doesn’t really have a choice.  He hasn’t seen Victoria, yet – he has allowed her family to see her first and if he is completely honest with himself he is terrified at the idea of seeing her like _that._

Victoria is not made to be still – she is always restless, he has gotten used to her trashing in her sleep, burying him in blankets and stealing his pillows (how does she manage to do that without waking him up remains a mystery); he is genuinely surprised when he sees some journalists outside the hospital: apparently, catching a serial killer and being a concerned – desperate, on the verge of losing his sanity – partner made the news.

The journalists will never know what really happened: how it was not a serial killer, how things were far more complicated than that and he still doesn’t know, exactly, what was truly at stake – he doesn’t have a security clearance; they will never know how Victoria, actually, played bait –  and somehow things didn’t go according to the plans and he knows that when she wakes up (she has to.) she is going to be her own harshest critic

He ignores the small swarm of journalists, blinks his eyes because of the flashes and gets into the black car waiting for him. He sighs in relief when there are no surprises in the car in the form of any of Victoria’s relatives.

He goes back to his flat, for a moment he is irrationally terrified at the idea of opening the door, he knows that there is nothing there, he knows what the doctors told him: Victoria is young, strong and the coma is helping her body to heal, her brain activity is within normal parameters and yet he is afraid to see her there, completely still and bleeding out on his sofa; he lets out a breath and opens the door – the flat is, of course, empty – but not truly, it used to be the place where he slept (when he didn’t crash on Emma’s sofa) and kept his things, but Victoria has changed everything – her presence is everywhere in his small flat: in the blue duvet on his sofa, her laptop on the coffee table, her notebook next to it. He sits on the sofa, he has been so strung up and has long ridden the adrenaline high, his muscles hurt, he feels hollowed out.  

He smiles, despite himself, seeing Victoria’s notebook: she writes everything down, from notes on their cases to the grocery shopping list. She didn’t bring it with her -  and William can’t wrap his mind around what happened; he shakes his head, he has long stopped being angry – it takes a strength he simply doesn’t have. Something slips out of the notebook and he needs to blink his eyes repeatedly.

It’s a picture of them – Emma took it with her mobile, while they were out having drinks, and he remembers so clearly how much they had laughed, how that sense of bewildering at the normalcy of it. He sees how Victoria is smiling, looking at him and how happy and in love they look. He realises that Victoria is the centre of his life and he has only a handful of pictures of her; she might have _died_ – ad until she wakes up he won’t stop being scared of losing her – and he would not have even a picture with her except the one he is looking at.  

He takes the picture in his hands and he doesn’t understand, at first, why his vision is blurred. His eyes are stinging and – he doesn’t remember when the last time he has cried was – he can’t stop the tears and that ball of dread that has sat in his gut for weeks explodes leaving him breathless, he has to take in big gulps of air, and he is afraid of closing his eyes because with one exception when he does he sees her, he sees the blood, the look in her eyes becoming glassy and the moment where her hand went limp in his.

He rises from the sofa, still holding the picture in his hand; he needs to move, he needs – Victoria, there, with him.

The hot water of the shower is almost a shock to his system, minutes later, he dares to close his eyes for a moment and she is there, a pool of blood underneath her, on his hands and he wants to punch something, needs it actually, and he almost does – he almost punches the tiles, stopping just short of hitting the wall –  his shoulders slump and he can’t move. His legs are threatening to give out and he touch the tiles to balance himself, he is still crying, but under the spray of the shower he pretends he can’t tell the difference.

 

* * *

 

He pockets the picture before going back to the hospital. He checks his mobile almost compulsively and that thing people say about crying and how supposedly it should make people feel better is utter bullshit! He doesn’t feel better, he doesn’t feel _cleaner_ , his throat hurts because he has swallowed down sobs and his eyes are puffy and red rimmed.

The last thing he wants to do when he gets out of the car is seeing John Conroy – but somehow he is not surprised that the man is outside, texting – he has the feeling the man has been waiting for him; he has done his best to ignore him, he remembers how he hurt Victoria when he visited. He knows that calling her a whore is not the only thing he has said or done to her. He tries to school his features because he is honestly too tired and raw to deal with that man, to fight him.

He doesn’t even want to stop and acknowledge him, it would be the best course of action, but when the man speaks he freezes.

“You have an uncanny talent, Mr. Melbourne.” Conroy says.

He wants to tell him to bugger off –  again -  that he has no right to be there because he doesn’t care about Victoria, he doesn’t care whether she wakes up – or _how_ she wakes up. He digs his nails into his palms and refrains from doing so, just barely.  

“Have I?” He asks. His voice is cold, he is perfectly still, he isn’t even looking at the man.

“Oh, yes – the way you seem to utterly destroy the women close to you. Uncanny, really.” Conroy says. The bastard wants to provoke him. “How _unfortunate_ that you had forgotten your mobile in your coat the night your wife killed herself.”

William looks at him; he can’t be really using Caro’s death for God knows what reason.

 “Unfortunate and _convenient_. On many levels, I have heard.” Conroy continues. He smiles at him and William has to breathe through his nose. He will not give him the satisfaction of stoop down to his level. Oh, he knows those rumors – he remembers those days and he is not surprised, somehow, that among all the drivel that has surrounded him Conroy picked the only things that really hurt him.

“You saw a pretty bird, her daddy issues, her money – and had her wrapped around your finger in a heartbeat,” Conroy smirks, he is still standing at a careful distance away from him and his voice is a hiss when he says, “did you know that Victoria recently changed her will?”

No. He did not know. He had no idea. He doesn’t give a toss about Victoria’s money. Conroy should not know either, but it’s not surprising in the least that he does, instead.  

 The man is looking at him, he recognizes that look, he has seen it in far too many predators’ eyes. He knows that man will tell him the truth, now – he will use the truth to hurt him.

He also knows that he can tell him that he is not like him, that he didn’t pick up a frail woman just for her money and her family’s power, but it would not make any difference. The man doesn’t care. He’s unashamedly proud of what he is.

“She took the job for you, to protect what is left of your reputation,” He says, “followed in her daddy’s footsteps. Well, welcome to the family, Mr. Melbourne. Provided she wakes up, I hope you won’t drive her crazy like you did with your late wife.”

Punching Victoria’s uncle had been cathartic. Punching that pathetic excuse for a human being would serve no purpose whatsoever. It would not even make him feel better. And in a flash, with the same instinct he should have listened to in the last few weeks, he understands _why_ John Conroy hates Victoria.

He calmly takes the few steps which separate him from the man and he sees that the man is preparing for an attack, for a punch, perhaps.

   He grips the man forearms – and, unlike what some people might think, he _is_ a strong man, a trained copper and for a moment he is seriously tempted to headbutt him, but he doesn’t.

He whispers something in the man’s ear, the truth – what Victoria doesn’t get, what her mother doesn’t get, and the man struggles for a moment and his grip on  Conroy’s arms intensifies before he lets go.

“You are crazy!” Conroy spits.

“Perhaps,” William counters, “ but if that's the case you should be careful and stay the fuck away, don’t you think?”

Conroy stalks away and William is absolutely not surprised when turning he sees Victoria’s uncle. 

“He is right about one thing, you know?” Victoria’s uncle says, “Welcome to the family.”

They have taken just a few steps when Victoria’s uncle says, “Do I want to know what you told him?”

“Nope,” William says.

“Victoria is right: he _is_ a big back of dicks!” The man replies.

It’s the first time he has smiled for days, and he is sure Victoria won’t believe him when he tells her.   

* * *

 

In the end, despite his fears, he realises that he just needs to see Victoria – he misses her. He needs her. The doctors are optimist, there are signs that she is about to wake up, which, he has been told, it doesn’t work like in the movies. One doesn’t just wake up from a coma. He has been informed it will take hours.

He is wearing scrubs and a mask and his hands are cold and clammy when he finally enters the small room where Victoria is.

She is still; like he had feared she would be, small and so pale. He ignores the noises of the machines, he ignores the IVs and even the breathing tube. He knows he can’t stay long, but he needs to be close to her, even if for a few moments.

Who in the bloody hell is he trying to fool? He wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t know whether Victoria can hear him, but it’s not that – he won’t talk to her like _that_. He can’t. Her hand is warm, small, he takes her pulse, trusting what he can feel far more than those machines. Her heart is beating, she is – alive.  

He has cried in his flat, but he can feel new tears welling up his eyes. He doesn’t shed them. He will not cry in that room, while holding Victoria’s hand – or so he wills his body to do. She is waking up, he reminds himself, the worst is over – she survived and yet he still feel like breathing requires a conscious effort.

He doesn’t cry, he tells Victoria about her mother and how she has stayed there, wearing jeans and jumpers, he tells her about her uncle and how he has visited her and the fact that he has found out that he is addicted to tea, as much as she is addicted to coffee.

He mentions colleagues who have dropped by or have asked about her prognosis, who after so long have finally got into their thick skulls that she is more than a pretty face with an important surname.

“Emma has cleaned up the fridge in my flat – she says that some of the stuff in there was this close to launch their first warp drive ship. She says I owe her.”

He sighs. Time is almost up, he wants to tell her that he loves her, but he refuses to tell her when she can’t hear him. He has told her – while she was asleep, like a coward. He knows that she is perfectly aware of his feelings for her and she has never, ever said a word about his inability to say three words – but it is different, now.

He wants to tell her how much he loves her when she can hear him; when she can smile and he can look at her in the eyes.

She is the bravest person he has ever met, it is only fair that – he allows himself to be brave, for once.    

He will wait. It feels like he has waited for her – all his life, he can keep waiting until she is better.

* * *

 

It takes hours – and he feels like he has drunk far too much coffee even if there’s a conspiracy surrounding him which keeps him away from caffeine and yet he can’t keep still. When the door opens, that time, he is already pacing the room, Emma is at work and Victoria’s uncle is outside the hospital, on the phone. He is alone with Victoria’s mother in the comfortable waiting room that somehow Leopold (the fact that, apparently, he is on first name basis with that man is still something William can’t wrap his mind around) managed to provide for them when the doctor comes in and tells them that Victoria is awake.

He deflates on his chair, he feels boneless. He hears what the doctor is saying, that Victoria has still a long way to go before she recovers, that she is weak, she will be in a lot of pain and she will have to spend weeks in the hospital, but the only thing that matters is that she is alive.

  She is alive – so he can live too.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t remember what happened. Her last recollection is rushing down to the basement, more afraid than she ever remembered being, knowing  and full accepting of what her role was supposed to be and its dangers.

She doesn’t remember a thing since the moment she felt the air knocked out of her lungs and that man knocked her on the pavement in a second. The doctor said that given the blood loss, the fact that, apparently, she flat lined twice, that kind of amnesia is not uncommon. It could have been worse. It should have been – considering how much blood she has lost and how close to die she really has been.

She is in pain. She can’t move, she can’t even adjust the blankets around her without feeling exhausted and in a world of pain.

She has been moved from intensive care into a normal room and she has asked a nurse just how long she has been out because seeing her uncle (sporting a fading bruise on his jaw) and William exchanging knowing and amused glances after she complained about the lousy pillow she has, seeing her mother treat her like a grown up and not calling her _Drina_ has been shocking, to say the least. Not as shocking as seeing her chatting with Emma and being accepting and even affectionate to William, but it’s a close second.

It’s been a little over a week, the nurse explains, and she tells her that her family has rarely left the hospital.

“Your boyfriend _never_ left – I have heard they had to force him to go home and shower.” The nurse added.

Apparently, she has learned, the cat is out of the bag as far as her relationship with William is concerned. She doubts anyone is surprised and she will have a long talk to her uncle as soon as she can have a conversation without feeling like she has run a marathon because there is no way that William’s career will be put in jeopardy.

 Speaking of William – she might have been knifed to the chest, she might have been in a coma, but he is the one who looks like he has been put through a meat grinder.

They are alone, for once, the nurses ignore him when they get into the room to check on her vitals and her IV. The morphine is good, but it makes her sleepy and she can’t think straight and it’s a feeling she doesn’t particularly like, so she keeps it at a minimum, even if the doctor himself told her that being in pain all the time isn’t helping her to heal faster.

“You should go home,” She says.

William looks up from the paper and says, “Nope. Not going anywhere.”

“You look terrible,” She says. He does: deep shadows under his eyes, he has lost weight, he has more than a stubble and he looks exhausted.  

“Seriously, William – I am fine. Well –“ She trails. She knows better than shrugging, she has learned the hard way what a terrible idea it is.  

William closes the paper, he looks at her and says, “I am exactly where I want to be, Victoria.”

“But the job –“ She starts.

“Leave of absence.” William lets out a sigh, he takes her hand and says, “I am only going to say this once: I don’t give a toss about my job or my reputation. But I can’t lose you!”

She has a hazy recollection of William wearing scrubs and a mask and visiting her right after she woke up from her coma: he looked even worse then and she isn’t sure whether it has really happened or if it was just one of the vivid dreams she is having – no one ever told her that one of the effects of what she has gone through is having the craziest dreams and she usually doesn’t remember her dreams – but maybe it really happened.

“You won’t,” She says, “ever! I swear!“

She means it and she can only hope William believes her. She is absolutely sincere.

“No more playing the hero without telling me,” William says. He is not smiling and he still looks like utter crap, but he believes her. He is angry and tired and she wants to ruffle his hair and have him in bed with her. She has to settle for holding his hand.

“I’m not a hero.” She says.

“You gave a pretty convincing impression of one…” William says.

She can’t have that conversation, not now. She is tired, she is hurting and William looks like he hasn’t truly slept for days. He is also holding back because she is still weak and he has the right to be pissed.

      Unlike her, William remembers everything – and as much as he is trying to hide it, she can see the haunted look in his eyes. That man in that basement hurt them both – and seeing William suffer is the last thing she wanted.  

“William – I..” She trails, but she doesn’t know what to say and how to say that. How can one ask forgiveness for putting someone through hell?

William Melbourne – is the kindest, most generous man she has ever met in her life. He has already forgiven her. She isn’t sure she can forgive herself, though.

 

* * *

 

William is not in her room when she wakes up that evening. It took her combined efforts with Emma, Ruth and her mother (seriously? What the hell happened while she was in a coma?) to convince him to go home and get some decent sleep. She is not alone in her room, though. Her uncle is there and she is honestly too tired and groggy with morphine to deal with him.

“What happened to your face?” She asks, instead. She has meant to ask for days, but they have never been alone so far.

“Your boyfriend punched me.”  Her uncle replies. He is smiling.

She tries to hide her smile, she truly does – but her body under morphine has a mind on its own.

“And I deserved it.” Her uncle adds after a moment.

Victoria furrows her brows, wishing she could move without causing havoc to her IV and having to regret it, later.

“I volunteered.” She says. It’s the truth: no one forced her, not really. Her uncle reminded her of who she is – but he never asked her to play bait.

Her uncle doesn’t say anything at first, and the silence is heavy and Victoria doesn’t think she has ever seen him look so – defeated.

“Your father was – like a brother to me.” Her uncle says and Victoria wants to stop him.

She knows the story, she knows exactly what happened, John Conroy saw to that a long time before – she doesn’t want to hear it.

“I know – it was a long time ago,” She says. She is exhausted, suddenly. It doesn’t matter what happened or why: she chose to play bait, she knew the potential risks and talking about what happened to her father and why will not change things.

Perhaps they should have had that sort of conversation years ago, not while she is in a hospital bed and it takes all her strength to blink her eyes.

“I will not make the same mistake twice, Victoria,” Her uncle says.

Sacrificing someone he loves to the greater good, seeing someone he loves dearly dying. She knows that’s what her uncle means and she also knows how much those words are costing him.

“So –“ She trails.

“So, I think your father would be very proud of you and _I_ am very proud of you.” Her uncle says.

 It’s the morphine and the fact that she has about a million of stitches in her chest and she can’t move and everyone from doctors to nurses keep telling her that she is lucky to be alive and that her recovery is going faster than anyone expected, it’s the fact that she misses home and she misses her father or maybe it’s the fact that her uncle has never told her directly that he is proud of her, but her eyes are welling up with tears and she can’t stop them.

“No more MI6?” She asks eventually when she has more or less blinked the tears back.

“No – I mean, you might be asked to consult from time to time,” He says and he ignores her weak eye roll while he says, “but Scotland Yard is lucky to have you.”

“What about William?”She asks. She knows they will be separated when she goes back to work, it’s inevitable but she won’t allow his career to be put in jeopardy because of her.

“What about him?” Her uncle asks. He has that fake innocent look on his face that she knows too well.

“You said that –“ She trails.

“He is part of the family, Victoria.” Her uncle says.

She blinks her eyes, letting his words sink in. She can see that the matter is settled as far as her uncle is concerned. William is part of the family, therefore he will be protected and she knows it will probably drive him crazy, but for a moment, she is _happy._

 

* * *

 

  There are setbacks: there is a lung infection that worries the doctors for a while and scares her, that make her realise just how close to die she has really been. There are days where she is so weak that she can’t keep her eyes open and days where she just wants to leave that bed and walk. She is healing, though.  

She has more or less accepted that while she was in a coma her family and William have got close – she doesn’t ask why John Conroy never visits and no one volunteers any information about it. She is absurdly glad. William has punched her uncle, but she is pretty sure she has not touched John Conroy.

She knows William is not a violent person: he is kind, sympathetic, she sees that he is getting along with her uncle and it’s not just for her sake. She suspects, though, that he would not have just punched John given the chance. Yes, she is glad John Conroy has made himself scarce. For more reasons than she can verbalize.

William brings things from both her flat and his – he reads to her; he doesn’t always spend the night in her room, but he is always there in the mornings. He doesn’t look like he’s been put through a meat grinder any longer, but he still has not lost that haunted look in his eyes.

When she tries to broach the subject of what happened in the basement – she has read the reports, both the official and the real one, but there is still a gaping hole in her memory – William changes the subject.  

There are images, though –things she keeps seeing and feeling and hearing in her dreams. It’s never the same dream: sometimes she is not even in that basement, she is somewhere else entirely, in her flat, or even in her childhood’s bedroom; she doesn’t always see that man, she doesn’t even know his name – and the irony is definitely not lost on her – but she always, without exceptions, see William.

She sees the fear in his eyes, she sees how he tries to reason with the man holding her with a knife pointed at her chest.

She sees him, every single time, sliding to his knees, ghostly pale.

She hears him begging her not to leave him. As if she ever could.

She is going crazy.

She wakes up from one of those nightmares, she is supposed to be alone, she is better – she has even walked, helped by both William and her mother that day, only a few meters, but it has felt like she has reached a milestone.

One of the nurses, after she has asked for coffee told her that she is officially in recovery.

“When patients start asking for coffee…” The man said, “it means they _really_ are better.”

“She is addicted.” William said.

The nurse had chuckled, but she is indeed feeling better. She has been very lucky. She is more and more aware of that fact.

She takes in a deep breath when she wakes up from the nightmare, the half darkness around her confuses, for a moment. It takes her a moment to remember where she is and make sense of her surroundings.

 She lets out a sigh, very much aware that only a couple of days earlier that caused her a world of pain; she is getting better – she needs to remind herself. She closes her eyes and needs to open them right away when she pictures William – the shock on his face, in his green eyes in the basement.

She doesn’t remember what happened – but she remembers that it was not supposed to end the way it did. The _actual_ SIS were supposed to intervene right away. She only had to show up on the crime scene – make the suspect nervous.

“Victoria,” William says.

Damn! Her detective skills have definitely taken a nose dive. She had not even noticed he was in the room!

“Weren’t you supposed to go home?” She asks.

Home – she has no idea what home is. Is it William’s flat? Hers? That room whenever William is with her?

“I couldn’t sleep and I came back here, Daisy let me in.” He says.

William has all the nurses wrapped around his fingers. Apparently, they cannot resist his soulful, smoldering looks.

She can relate.

She sighs. William is immediately by her side, helping her settle against the pillow. One. Her karma hates her.

“I’m fine.” She says.

William makes a sound – it’s his nonverbal version of, “Sure you are.”

“Really. It was just a dream.” She says.

He smiles as he sits on the bed, and she would honestly kill to have him in her arms. She misses him. She misses her life – she is tired of being in pain, of not feeling clean, of her pajamas, of that lousy pillow but, above all, she is tired of William treating her as china, as if she will break if he touches her.

 He touches her face and she notices that he is wiping away tears from her face. She closes her eyes. She misses his touch – and she hates that she woke up crying and William saw her.

She hates that she feels that what she sees in her dreams is not just her subconscious working things out, but reliving things that really happened. William was not even supposed to be anywhere near that basement.

“I’m so sorry.” She says.

She opens her eyes and William is looking at her and she loves him so much that it actually hurts – she cannot breathe, for a moment.

“About what?” William asks, “I wasn’t sleeping. You didn’t’ wake me up.”

William is being evasive, as always since she woke up and was strong enough to try and talk about what happened that day.

“I am not going to shatter if you are cross with me. I deserve it.” Victoria says.

William’s hand is still on her face, he is not smiling – not exactly, it’s like he is trying to, but he is making an effort.

“I can never be cross with you, Victoria,” William says.

William’s words make her feel worse – and he seems to realise that because he hastily adds, “I am pissed off. Very.”

And she cannot stop crying and smiling at the same time because William is truly the worst liar she has ever met.

“I keep – seeing you.” Victoria says. She knows William hates seeing her cry, she hates crying, but she cannot help it; she opens her eyes and sees that William is still looking at her – and there is understanding in his eyes.

She does not need to elaborate; she rarely does with him – but she has to because the look in William’s eyes speaks volumes and because she hurt him, even if it was the farthest thing from her mind.

“You are there – and you see what happens. I’m so sorry, William.” She says, “I don’t remember anything – but I do not think these are just dreams.”

“I was there,” William says. His voice is soft and she wishes he was angry at her because she deserves it.

“You were not supposed to. I was not supposed to be at risk.” She says.

William lets out a sound that it’s something between a sigh and a chuckle, “He killed five people – did you forget?” He says.

He is not angry or if he is, he is doing his best not to show it.

“I didn’t. I was just supposed to show up – the other agents were supposed to get him first.” She says.

“They didn’t,” William says. His hand slides down and seeks hers, she notices that it’s cold and she wants to undo what she has done, what happened that day.

 “I couldn’t do anything –“ William continues.

It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it, it’s hurting him – and she remembers the day he told her about his wife and son and how she had thought that she would never, ever hurt him like that.

_Stay with me._

“I –“ Victoria trails.

“I love you,” William says and his voice is hoarse, and she knows. She does. William is absolutely rubbish with words, but he has shown her that he loves her in so many ways and so many times that she thought she did not need to hear the words.

Turns out she is wrong. It turns out that she _needs_ to hear those three words, because – because all she has heard, in her mind, for days is either the painful silences or William’s voice, desperately begging her to stay with him. As if she could ever leave him.

She doesn’t want to cry – she wants to smile, but what no one tells about long stays in a hospital and surgery and being in constant pain is that it sort of messes with emotions.

So she is crying and smiling and clutching William’s hand in hers as strongly as she can.

“God –“ She says after a moment, “I did take after mummy after all…”

 William smiles, he is also fighting back tears, and he mumbles something about her mom not being so bad.

 “I love you.” He says again. And again.

She wants to say that she loves him, so much that it hurts – and heals her.

“I will never, ever hurt you again.” She says instead.

He kisses her forehead, brushes her lips with his and she can breathe, properly, truly.

 And she has honestly no idea whether the moisture she can feel on her cheeks it’s her tears or William’s. It doesn’t matter – it’s not grief, it’s happiness.

 

* * *

 

Victoria hates desk duty – but she does not complain, not aloud. She is frustrated, of course, especially when he is assigned a new partner. Peel is boring, he has a stick up his arse that it is apparently permanently lodged there, but he is a good man. Victoria eyes him warily, at first, but truth be told there is not much either of them can do about it: it turns out that no one cares that they are together, most of the people at work already knew, many – far more than William expected – are genuinely happy for them, but rules are rules.

The fact that the press paints them as heroes and has been spinning their relationship as something out of a book or a movie, something people root for has – protected them both.

William strongly suspects that Leopold – yes, it is still strange being on a first name basis with Victoria’s uncle. The first time Victoria heard him saying her name she almost choked on water. – is behind that move. When he mentioned his suspicions to Victoria she shrugged and said, “Well, he’s your best mate now…”

“Are you – hold on a moment – are you jealous?” He asked.

“I won’t even dignify this with an answer.” She replied.

That conversation took place in Victoria’s sitting room, a mere few days after she was finally discharged from the hospital. He was in the middle of moving his things there – and she looked absolutely adorable, trying to help – mostly by unpacking boxes while sitting on the sofa.

“Yes. Yes, you are.” He had said.

Victoria had observed a lamp in her hands, looking around before saying, “He said you are part of the family, now – so, yes, he is probably behind all of this.” A pause and then, “William – where in God’s name did you pick this _thing_?”

They live together. At first because – well, there are no excuses, really – he is past the point of finding them. They love each other, he had held her while she was almost dying and he doesn’t want to spend a day without her if he can help it.

He also has an engagement ring, bought months ago, hidden – because Victoria is an excellent detective and since it took him months to even tell her that he loves her, it’s not surprising that he still has not proposed.

Emma has threatened to sick Victoria’s mother on him and – she was not bluffing.

It’s their weekend off, the only one in the month they have in common. Victoria has a nasty scar on her chest, she looks at it every morning while getting dressed and he touches it every night – it’s a scar, it means she is alive and he has not lost her. He has told her as much, the previous night and then asked her if she wanted to see his childhood home.

Victoria’s only reply has been a kiss, long and lingering.

His brother has been more than happy to help him out – going as far as having someone cleaning up the place.

They chat in the car, he is driving – they listen to music and share an enormous cup of coffee and it feels like things are finally, _finally_ going back to normal.

Victoria must feel it too, because she smiles and her hand rests on his knee and stays there for the remainder of the trip to Brocket Hall.

 

* * *

 

The place has not changed a lot since he was last there. It is still old, it is still the place where he spent his summers growing up, playing with his siblings or reading and watching the rooks, back when Scotland Yard was far from his thoughts for the future.

Caro had never loved that place: it was too quiet and she had been scared of quiet. Augustus, on the other hand, had loved the park and they had spent a lot of time together there, which is the reason, he can admit now, why he has not set foot in that place since his son died.

He tells Victoria while she unpacks their bags – she insisted, she wants to show him that she is fine, that she is not to be treated as fragile. He realises that he has been talking a lot about Augustus, lately – and she always listens and he doesn’t just talk about the bad things: the crises, how he was afraid of the dark – how he looked like he was sleeping when he found him, even if his heart was not beating. No, he talks about the good memories, about how proud he was – and is of his boy, how innocent he was and it hurts, of course it does, parents are not supposed to outlive their children, it goes against nature, but it also feels good, for some reason – and Victoria is always there for him, when he can’t go on talking.

 But – he is happy at that precise moment; he is with Victoria, she is smiling and her smile is infectious, she wants to see the house, she is full of life, she has made him accept his past, she has filled his present – and she is the only future he wants.

“I – need to show you something, first.” He says, “follow me?”

“Everywhere. I will follow you everywhere.” She says. She is still smiling, but he can hear the emotion, the love in her voice.

 

* * *

 

 

They walk hand in hand – and William’s heart is doing a weird dance in his chest; he has a ring in his pocket, he has thought about what to say and how to say and where to say it for months – and it has to be that precise spot, the one where he used to go and sit and enjoyed the nature surrounding him and, according to Emma brooded like a bloody romantic tosser.

He is smiling and it’s a beautiful afternoon, the colors are breathtaking and Victoria is looking around, her eyes bright with wonder, her hair loose on her shoulders and that is the moment – he feels it in his bones.

He slows down his pace to a stop, they are near his favorite tree, but that is the past. The woman looking at him, still too thin after her long stay in the hospital, who hogs his pillows and has found a way to fit all his things in her flat and make them look like they have always been there.

“There is something I need to tell you.” William says.

Victoria is still holding his hand, she is smiling. “Me too.” She says.

He opens his mouth to talk but she gently shushes him by placing a finger on his lips.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” She says, “I know how important this place is for you.”

She slowly removes her finger from his lips. He has the feeling that she wanted to say something else – but decided against it at the last second.

“I used to come here all the time – watched the rooks, there is a lot to learn about them, I think.” He says. He is stalling. He wants to do it properly, get down on one knee and propose, but he is sort of rambling.

“I read somewhere that rooks mate for life,” Victoria says.

He smiles. It’s true – and he thought he had had his shot at love, marriage, children. He thought, he was sure he could not and would not be happy again.

“I am a cynic.” He says. And he is – most of the times, but Victoria is the exception, she has always been.

She is not talking, even if she does not agree with what he has just said.

“I am –“ He says, “I –“

“William,” She says.

He huffs out a breath and says, “I thought I would never be happy again. I thought I did not deserve to. I still don’t know what I did to –“

“You were just yourself.” Victoria says, “also – the cheekbones and the voice didn’t hurt.”

He smiles, even at the very beginning, when they barely knew each, she could make him smile, which should have tipped him off – but thankfully, it didn’t. He would have run away from her.

“What I am trying to say –“ He says after a moment, thankful because he did not run away and she did not let him, “is that I cannot imagine living my life without you, I don’t want to –“

She blinks her eyes. He reads surprise in her eyes, he had thought – believed, that she suspected his intentions. She doesn’t.

They truly are two idiots, like Emma never tires of repeating him.

Therefore, he does the only thing he can – he gets down on one knee, her hand in his, and it’s old fashioned, it’s redundant because they already live together and signing papers and wearing rings will not change that. Nothing can.

“Victoria, will you marry me?” He asks.

She does not say a word, for a moment and then – well, it’s Victoria and he knows that she will never stop surprising him, will never stop making him fall in love with her.

She gets down on one knee too and says, “You saved me, William. That day in the basement and every day before that –“

He is holding his breath, even if Victoria’s hands are on his face and she has tears in her eyes.

“Yes.” She says. And repeats it, between kisses, laughing and they will later tell their friends an edited down version of the events, they will not tell of how they laugh, hug each other and cannot stop touching each other and how they both say yes.

“Mummy will want to have the wedding at Kensington,” She says, later, much later, when she is actually wearing the ring he bought on a whim and they are tangled up in each other’s arms, in the bedroom.

“Perhaps,” He says.

“Would it –“ She kisses his neck and he is touching the scar on her chest and he is still incredulous that it’s really happening, “would it bother you if we got married here?”

He could see it – his past, present, and future in that house. Adding new memories to the ones he has of the house.

“Not at all.” He says.

 “And William? For the record?” Victoria says, when he has already closed his eyes.

“Yes, love?” He sleepily says.

 “I don’t need a ring and a fancy wedding – I never cared about this sort of stuff. I just want to be with you. That’s all that matters to me.” She says.   

And the thing is – he knows it’s true. He believes her. He thought he would never have another chance at happiness.

He is grateful to have been proved wrong.

“I know.” He says.

“Ok – but you will talk to mummy.” She says.

He chuckles and kisses the crown of her head.

“And don’t steal uncle Leopold - he needs to walk me down the aisle,” Victoria adds.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” William says.

She places a kiss on his lips and says, “Did you know that they call me Mrs. Melbourne at work?”

“Really?” He asks feigning innocence.

She knows he is lying but her smile is blinding.

“I have always loved how it sounds: Mrs. Melbourne.” She says.

He has always loved it as well.

“Guess one gossip turned out to be true, after all.” He sleepily said.

Victoria smiles against his skin and mumbles, “So, it’s settled – we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”

They are and he is looking forward to it.


End file.
